Red
by GhostRelic
Summary: The peaks and valleys of life together continue for Tywin and Sansa, some higher and some deeper than others. :::: Pride & Pack: Part IV :::: [COMPLETE]
1. letter

Sansa never knew if her letters were ever really sent.

She had written more than a dozen, one a fortnight, and had yet to receive a reply.

Tywin informed her that correspondence in times of war was a difficult proposition on the outset, further complicated because her mother was embedded in Robbs' host, and ravens would more than likely be shot down well before they made their destination.

He also informed her, her letters were being routed through to the edge of the Westerlands, as close to the Riverlands as possible, in order to help alleviate the suspicion of a message coming from Kings Landing.

It's not as though she didn't believe her husband; he was many things, but he had yet to lie to her - that she was aware of.

Regardless, there were pangs, _there were always pangs_, of hesitation and of wary apprehension in her life, in her marriage. But just as she had adapted to captivity after the death of her father, she was adapting to responsibility as the wife of The Hand of the King, the wife of Tywin Lannister.

Whatever worries she had however, they did not prevent her from writing. It was a small act of freedom in her daily subjection to people, and events, and hospitalities requiring her carefully arranged courtesies, and recently acquired social eloquence.

She could smile now, at those first terrifying feasts and banquets she was mandated to attend.

She had spent most of those evenings tucked close to Tywin; being previously instructed to observe only, he would either place her snugly at his arm or just behind his arm - the latter normally in conjunction with conversing with Lord Tarly or Lord Tyrell.

If she found herself engaged in conversation in those days, she smiled wider at the memory, she'd held a look suggesting she had been struck dumb altogether. But she watched, and inevitably learned, when Tywin would speak on her behalf and cleverly redirect a question or entrench the conversationalist in a verbal quandary.

Sansa was unable to convey intimidation through her words, like her husband, but when she coupled the confidence that the course of her marriage helped her to exude, with her natural courtesy, the result was a sincerity that had the ability to disarm. Which was usually enough to allow her to steer and control any conversation.

For the first time in her life Sansa had power, and it was her own. Not because she was the daughter of Eddard Stark, or the betrothed of Prince Joffrey, or the wife of Tywin Lannister; it was something she had created and cultivated _herself_.

She was proud of it, for the most part. Proud of herself, for the most part.

Her husband was proud of her too - not that he ever said as much, or given her any outward encouragement.

Instead, he had developed a habit of engaging large groups of high lords and ladies in conversation, only to exit abruptly, leaving his wife to continue in his stead.

That was his praise, she knew, and sometimes she felt awash in his version of pride and recognition.

Other times, though, she felt like a novelty. Something new and shiny being put on display for the appraisal and amusement of others. It struck close to what she felt when Joffrey would single her out - but those moments were fleeting, thankfully.

She pulled her focus back to the missive she was composing.

The letters to her mother, since the first one, had always opened with her feelings laid bare; the fact that she missed her and Robb immensely, that she wanted nothing more than to reunite with them, and that she loved them - that part she repeated throughout her letters.

She had mentioned Arya the first time she wrote, how she hoped her sister had made her way to them, but Tywin scratched it out and informed her she'd have to rewrite the whole thing. Since then, even the vaguest of references of her sister were eventually crossed out and left out of the final draft completely.

When Sansa had asked why she wasn't allowed to mention her sister, Tywin simply told her she knew the answer. His non-question questions, and his non-answer answers always saw her resorting to careful deliberation.

It was frustrating sometimes; like trying to find a door in the dark, fumbling until you touch upon something familiar - such as her brother and mother not _actually_ knowing Arya was missing.

Though, it didn't stop her from writing about Arya in the first place; it seemed fitting that her rebellious little sister would be her own quiet rebellion.

Her marriage was only mentioned in her first letter, and what she had written her family was truthful; that her Lord husband had been generous and that she was regarded amiably.

How could she convey the greater truth in words? That her marriage was changing her in ways she had never considered as a young girl growing up in Winterfell; she was no longer _that _Sansa - with a head full of songs and a heart reserved for a golden prince.

But then, she thought to herself, she couldn't imagine the ways in which Robb and her mother had changed in the few years since their separation; through all the loss and the pressures of a war.

She sat contemplating her words, idly roaming her eyes over Tywins desk, searching for inspiration, when her focus was drawn to the edge of a parchment sticking out quite far from under a haphazardly arranged stack. She could read two visible words: _young wolf_.

It would be treason if she was caught rummaging through the communications of the King, but she couldn't live with herself if she didn't at least _look_. Her husband wouldn't know, and he _was_ continually prompting her to take an interest in his work.

Sansa extracted the document as though it were the fragile petal of a dried flower and turned it upright in order to read.

_Wedding organized. Festivities to last one night._

_Several courses to serve - trout, northern game, and young wolf._

_We thank Your Grace for helping cover the expense in trying times_.

Her mouth went dry and the back of her neck felt like it was covered in needles.

She wasn't necessarily skilled in logic and deduction, but this wasn't written by someone overly clever.

The implications of the letter were abundantly clear; the King was supporting a plot against her brother, against her mother, against the north.

Tywin made sure she attended gatherings of political figures, expected her to speak and relate to them; she _knew _her brother married a Westerland girl, breaking his oath to Walder Frey.

The men she spoke with thought it was the greatest game - trying to vex the Hands' Stark wife by speaking ill of her family. What they didn't know was she had been playing _that_ particular game longer than the bloody war had existed.

She also knew her mothers brother had been negotiated in place of Robb, his wedding upcoming at the Twins...

Sansa found herself scrambling for the nearest vessel and purging what she ate to break her fast, and what felt like every ounce of strength holding her up.

Her mind sparked and popped erratically, like wet wood taking to fire. Her fingertips were cold, her feet were cold as well; she had felt this way before...

Her body was reacting to shock.

It was as though she was watching herself from somewhere above, she could see herself rinse her mouth and push away from the basin, then walk briskly to the desk and snatch up the letter that sent her reeling to begin with.

There was a surprising feeling of calm covering her, like the warmth of a blanket, it was chasing away the coldness that had crept in.

As Sansa exited into the large passageway beyond their apartments in the Tower of the Hand, her guard followed in a natural progression.

She knew her husband would be in one of two places, council chambers or the map room; the latter, as her husband had explianed, a necessity with Stannis Baratheon still a threat. There was always case to investigate strategy and tactics.

She made her way to council chambers, and it wasn't until she was nearing the doors that she even considered Joffrey - that he may be in attendance - and what she found halting was that she cared not one whit.

Her focus was clear and she had a mission.

There was only one castle guard outside the doors to the chambers, indicating council had convened in the map room. Sansa didn't even bother to ask, she simply turned abruptly and proceeded up the stairs, her guard forever in tow.

Rounding the final corner she saw two Gold Cloaks and Tywins personal guards standing by the doors; she knew then that her assumption was correct.

Upon reaching the entrance, both the sets of guards seemed puzzled by Lady Sansas' appearance, but the former moved to cover the doors out of habit.

"I need to speak with my husband, please announce me." She was polite and courteous, as expected.

It was the burliest of the two Gold Cloaks standing guard who addressed her, "Apologies m'lady, council is restricted to those already attending."

Sansa narrowed her eyes at the man, her patience was running thin and her anger was almost uncontrollable.

"Do you know who my husband is, Ser?"

The man was somewhat taken aback, "Yes, Lady Lannister, of course-"

She didn't bother to be horrified or cringe at her name, she simply spoke over him, "Would you care for my husband to know _your_ name, Ser? The name of the man that kept his wife and urgent business away from him?"

She had never used her husband as a weapon, perceived or actual, and while people gave her a wide berth in general because of Tywin Lannister, it was something altogether new to wield his name like a sword.

Exhilarating in fact.

The burly guard and his companion exchanged looks before Sansa said in a tone of total authority, "Announce me."

The smaller Gold Cloak nodded and set to pushing the large wooden doors open; but before he could make his way inside and announce Lady Sansa as decorum stated, Sansa had already started to push past him.

It was her own guard that gripped her elbow lightly, trying the stop her from disrupting the meeting, "No my lady, please wait..."

But she shrugged out of his grasp before he could finish, far too livid and anxious to care.

Sansa shoved her way into the map room and must have looked a fright because Lord Tywin immediately stood, flashing a look of panic before settling back to severe; flicking a glance at the men outside the door who allowed this to happen.

Her vision narrowed, her only focus was on her husband; Tywin met her halfway into the room before she choked out her words.

"You _can't_!" Her voice was shaking in anger; she was clutching the parchment in her fist and holding it up to him.

Tywin looked at his wife in furious confusion, until his vision settled on the nondescript seal of the letter.

It was his turn to offer words of equal temperament, only _his _were aimed at the men inside the room.

"Everyone, out!" He flicked a glance at Kevan, giving a silent command that his brother understood immediately.

When Tywin looked back down to his wife, she was still icy stiff in her own fury; something that melted as soon as the last man exited and Tywin gripped her wrist like a vice, the one that had been extended holding the parchment.

"Are you spying, girl? Is that how you _honour _me?" His grasp tightened; he knew it hurt her but didn't care.

She pushed through it by setting her jaw and kept looking at him.

Her words were calm, measured, and spoken around the pain she was enduring, "I'm not _spying _my lord. I was preparing another letter for my mother, and this," she shook her proffered hand as much as his grip would allow, "was sitting opened. I saw my brothers name... I couldn't _help_ but read it." Her fear and sadness seeped into the last sentence. Her face followed suit, the stiffness of her features softening to worry.

"You can not condone this my lord, the King can not condone this." She was losing her fury altogether, her boldness had drained her.

His chest was tightening, he felt more than embarrassed or offended by her actions and accusations; he felt betrayed.

"And who are you to demand anything of me, girl?" It was all but snarled out at his wife, "Do you think me some old fool willingly lead by a cunt? _Is that what you think of me?!_" He shook the fist wrapped around her wrist as violently as he spoke his words.

His coarse language took her by surprise, her husband rarely, if ever, used it; but Sansa would not be frightened, nor cowed; not in this matter, it was too close - _she_ was too close.

"My lord, I am your _wife_, I am going to be the mother of your children." She all but pleaded to the man.

She watched as Tywin dropped her wrist, stepped back and looked her up and down. Raking his view over and over, his face softening to one that looked distinctly boyish.

Until he met her eyes again, then his features slowly formed an ever-deepening scowl.

It was _his_ voice that was now shaky, but it wasn't in anger, "I thought you... I _trusted_ you!"

She could hear the hurt in his words and it crushed her with the urge to reach for him, to touch him, it was an utter conflict of emotions within her.

At the same time, her mind was trying to determine exactly _why _Tywin would be hurt - yet another door found by fumbling in the darkness.

"No," but he didn't seem to snap out of his hurt, "_No!_" She practically yelled the word at him; it rendered the desired effect.

"I am _not_ with child, my lord." She softened her tone, but it still projected urgency, "But I will be; and it will be our children that will carry this shame."

Tywin furrowed his brows sharply at his wife.

She knew she struck a chord with him - put into question his legacy.

Sansa begged her mind to comply, to calculate at a rate it had never been taxed with.

"You fought and sacrificed to win back the dignity of House Lannister, and _this_..." Again she shook the letter, but this time she raised it to just below his eye level in order to regain his focus and ensure his attention, "This will surely burn your efforts to the ground."

He flicked her hand out of his face and seethed, "Our name is not connected with _this_; I did not win back _anything _by being stupid, child."

_Child_, she had to ignore it and move on. She knew very well he slung subtle insults when he felt cornered, she'd seen him do it on the rare occasion it happened. They were meant as redirection - she knew better than to be baited, she was _taught_ better than that.

Instead she willed her mind, with all her might, to produce the pictures needed for the story she had to tell, "No, _our_ name will not sign the order, you're right, but _our_ gold will be placed in the hands of those that carry out the deed. The crown, _our _daughter, _our _grandson, will be rewarding the men engaged in this treachery." Those titles felt like blades in her mouth.

She was grasping at the first things that came to her, but her husband looked engaged so she continued.

"And you know as well as I do that the entirety of Westeros recognizes that it is _Tywin Lannister_ who rules; and has since before the rebellion." She caught her breath and added with renewed energy, "I grew up in the _barbaric north_ and knew this!"

It wasn't a lie. She had sat silently around conversations between her father and his bannermen discussing and recounting those very details.

Tywin _was_ listening, he wasn't simply humouring his wife. She could see his jaw flexing and working, his eyes never left hers.

It was the thought of her father that supplied the next chapter of her tale.

"Do you not see? Guest Right is older than us all, and it's held in a higher regard than liege lords and kings on thrones." When he narrowed his eyes slightly she knew she was skirting too close to frivolity.

Tywin spoke calm and collected then, not _at_ his wife but _to_ her, "Why would the crown want to continue in months of war when it can be ended in one night?"

Her mouth spoke instantly, "_Anything gained easily has the highest of prices_, that is what _you_ told me." She wanted to get on her knees and cry and wail and beg, but knew it would only eradicate her efforts, "_This_ Tywin, _this _action," she shook the letter again, "will have the highest price of them all."

She then settled for the ugliest of honesty.

"My lord, if this happens _you _will persevere by reputation alone; but _you_ will die, and whatever protection that your name offered will be buried as well." She was starting to feel defeated. "Any children you leave behind will have to answer for this, and House Lannister will have all but died with you."

She opted for a final truth to end it then, it was all she had left in her.

"You do this Tywin, and you will forfeit the north." She blinked slow and calm. She was not afraid.

She hated what she was about to say, she hated herself for even offering it; she sounded so, so tired, "Kill Robb Stark in battle my lord, allow him to die the death befitting the king they have crowned him, and you will still have a chance for the north."

It was an effort for her to keep from retching.

"If you support his death in this manner, my eight thousand year old name will be worthless to you"

There was nothing but silence between them; it accentuated just how heavily Sansa was breathing. It was as though she had been running throughout their entire conversation.

Lord Tywin stood up straight, never taking his eyes off his wife.

Sansa could see the strategic ticking of scenario and endgame in the way his vivid green eyes would alternate focus on each of hers. She knew he was both deep in thought and highly alert.

After what felt like hours, when his eyes squared suddenly on hers, no longer twitching, she gasped inwardly.

His features did not move, did not betray one crumb of emotion, before he nodded at her; deep and sturdy, without taking his eyes off hers.

He offered no verbal confirmation or acknowledgement, just that one nod and Sansa wasn't confident enough in herself to truly decipher it. But the solemn posture and expression he held gave her hope that her words had been absorbed and considered.

It was all she could ask for.

She had the urge to reach out to him, touch him or hold him, but refrained for fear of ruining what she had just accomplished.

It was Tywin who reached first.

He put his hand on her shoulder not ungently, maintaining their eye contact, he drew easy circles with his thumb over her collarbone.

She knew he wanted to say something, his jaw was flexing again, but instead he used his hand to turn her toward the entrance of the room.

When Tywin ushered her to the door he turned to his brother and instructed him to escort Sansa back to their apartments, and in the same breath he instructed the two soldiers standing sentry to seize Sansas' guard and take him to a cell.

Sansa immediately turned to question what was happening; she saw the absolute fear in the eyes of her young guard and stony impassiveness of her husband.

"Wha-"

She started to protest, but was swiftly turned away by Ser Kevan.

"Keep walking my lady, please." His voice was soft and affable, and it wasn't so much a command as it was a request.

Ser Kevan kept a hand on her elbow, pointing her in the direction they needed to travel.

"But, why is-" Turning once again, she couldn't understand why her guard was being detained, she wanted to see and, more so, to know why. Ser Jerrod had been her guard since her wedding day, she considered him a friend of sorts - she knew of his family, his wife and new child...

And again she was cut off by her good-brother gently turning her back around.

"There is nothing that can be done behind you, my lady. You must go forward."

She heeded him; Ser Kevan was kindly but he was also a large man that could easily overpower her. And as she looked up at him, she noted even his expression was like the his voice and touch - gentle - a complete contrast to her husband.

As they walked, his words were sinking in. They were far more than flippant instructions.

When she regarded him again he looked down at her and offered a small smile. It was genuine and spoke of understanding.

Although they interacted almost daily, Sansa didn't know Lord Tywins' brother well. He was always polite and courteous, though he never offered more than the most general of conversation.

She had assumed that he was of the same, albeit more quiet, mind as her husband. In the past handful of minutes, however, she became keenly aware that Ser Kevan was far more than what he allowed others to interpret.

Much like herself, she supposed.

They walked in silence until they were securely inside the sitting room of her apartments. At which point she turned to Ser Kevan.

"Why? Why would he arrest Ser Jerrod?" It came out more high pitched and whiny than she intended, but she cared more about the answer than she did her tone.

Kevan Lannister looked at the girl in front of him, for that was what she was - a girl, and could easily recognize that she knew the answer to her own question and was seeking some sort of assurance that her assumption was incorrect.

He held a look of thoughtful knowing, "Everything has a price my lady."

Her face looked pained as she glanced down and away from him.

Ser Kevan crouched slightly in order to look at her more directly and took each of her hands in each of his.

"You_ knew_ that though."

He quirked his lips slightly when she looked at him again, her eyes speaking the words her mouth refused.

She felt as though she wanted to cry, but held it at bay, "It should be me."

Even under his gentle stare, Sansa was under a crush of weighted emotion and had to look away again.

Kevans' features dropped, he knew exactly what she was feeling but it had been such a long time since he'd experienced it himself.

"Lady Sansa, do you understand Tywins' message?"

Sansa took a deep breath and contemplated what had unfolded; then she took that sequence of events and perceived them as though she were her husband.

Understanding made her feel physically ill; not because comprehension in general was overwhelming, but because the death of a man could have been prevented if she weren't so impulsive, so selfish.

Hindsight was never fair, and she immediately thought of the first time this type of behaviour caused a man to lose his life; her father.

Her tears could not be stopped then. She wasn't sobbing, but there were great rivers of tears making their way to the collar of her gown.

When she spoke, it was to Ser Kevans' boots.

"The Hands' wife sought to control him; in front of the Kings' council," her voice sounded as though it had been dragged over a league of rough road. She looked up at the man in front of her, "and he would not be thought of as such. An example had to be made."

Kevan nodded and lightly squeezed the hands he was holding on to, "That's right."

He could see in her eyes that the burden was still too heavy.

"Did Tywin listen to you, my lady?" He sighed.

She took a moment to ruminate, then answered honestly and quietly, "Yes, he did."

Ser Kevan tilted his head ever so slightly, his look was on the edge of disbelief before he barely broadened his smile and spoke confidently.

"Then, my lady, _you_ have succeeded where kings have tried and failed."

That it was a hard-learned lesson went unspoken, but was emphatically understood.

He gave one more tiny squeeze to her hands before letting them go. His smile remained in place as he nodded a bow and took his leave of her.

Sansa watched him exit and couldn't help but think that he and Tywin were brothers but so very different.

She guessed that was the way of things - even in her own family. Robb was always so different from Jon; and she hoped, hoped with the ferocity of the animal that represented her, _both animals now_, that whatever she could impart on Tywin today would ensure that difference would remain in the world.

When her handmaid entered the room Sansa asked for wine, then privacy.

The significance of what happened was heady; she needed time to digest not only the impact of finding the letter and confronting Lord Tywin, but also the ownership of one more life on her hands.

A price paid.

More blood through her fingers.

Some days she felt like she was drowning in it, all the blood. Nights were worse, that's when she could taste the copper and hear the voices of the dead.

Before her marriage she would wake up alone and shaking, screaming for her father; now she wakes up to a warm hand settled on the center of her chest, and a calm voice pulling her out of her terror, like a lifeline.

She succumbed to her grief then, the waves of sorrow crashing through the storm of herself.

Sansa wept for them all. For Ser Jerrod, for his family, for her father, for her family, for every single person dead and gone because of her; always a heavy cost. But she clung to the knowledge that the price was for the greater good, not just for her, or her family, but for the realm. That it would alleviate an atrocious precedent.

It all just made her cry harder.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sansa was still seated in front of the dwindling fire when Tywin returned to their apartments. He was exceedingly later than normal, but it was to be expected that night.

She had had no appetite and lost her concept of time, she was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn't even hear her husband enter the room, let alone approach her.

He stopped in front of his wife, the tension still thick between them, and wanted to address the matter and be done with it.

But it was Sansa who spoke first.

"My guard-"

She sounded calm but it didn't stop Tywin from putting an end to that line of conversation then and there, "Is being replaced with one that will steer you _away_ from stupidity."

His tone was equally calm and it caused her guilt to double in size; but in doing so, it also sparked the kindling of anger that was tucked away in her thoughts.

The one question she forced herself to dismiss, for the sake of her own sanity, was now in the forefront and couldn't be ignored.

"How long have you known?" She was hypnotized by the guttering flames, not affording her husband even the slightest of glances, but her voice was shrewd.

Five words ensured that his expectation to put the issue to rest was shattered.

He spoke, annoyed, as he walked away from her to sit at his desk, "Three moons."

She didn't know if she should be more angry at the nonchalant manner used to divulge his prior knowledge of the potential murder of her mother and brother, or the fact that he had known for _that _long.

He had supped with her knowing it, had talked about countless other trivial matters knowing it, had _bedded_ her knowing he was plotting the demise of her family.

A wave of shame shuddered down her.

"I hate you." It was said with the utmost sincerity. Still, she observed only the hearth.

Tywin scoffed at her, light and airy, as though his wife just made an amusing comment on the weather, "If it please my lady."

His mocking of her was enough to ignite her banked fury into a full-on rage.

Sansa stood at an alarming rate and spanned the distance between the sofa and his desk in the barest of heartbeats.

She was standing in front of the large piece of furniture, gulping and heaving breaths, shaking in her hurt and anger, and he couldn't stop himself from pushing her. Couldn't stop himself from seeing exactly where her ire would lead her - them both.

The corner of is mouth tilted up, his eyes narrowed, and he spoke in a sickly sweet tone, "Lady _Lannister_."

In one vicious swipe of her arm, Sansa cleared his desk of every page and parchment; and, as if it was part of her furious choreography, planted both hands palm-down before settling her glare at him.

But violence was Tywins' dance. It was second nature for him; it was nothing to grab her wrists and pull her over his desktop. Leaving her bent at the waist, toes barely finding purchase on the floor, head resting just past midway with one cheek flat against the grain of the wood.

Quick as a snake, he swung both of her arms behind her back, pinning them there with only the strength of one of his large hands.

He wasn't as furious as his wife, but, then, his calm exterior was always part of the ploy - meant as a lull, meant as a warning, meant to frighten.

He only had to sway forward slightly and lean down at the shoulders before his mouth was next to her upturned ear.

"If you insist on acting like an animal, I will treat you as such," he rumbled low and long, "I will find you separate accommodation, remove your freedom and bed you as duty requires," he placed his lips on the shell of her ear and all but whispered, "_Is that what you would prefer?_"

Sansa was breathing heavily, face pulled tight in anger; but she wasn't struggling.

"_No._"

The word was more air than anything, edged in her fury, but it was the truth nonetheless.

Tywin removed his grip from her hands and let her arms fall to an almost natural palm-up position on either side of her.

His hand then gently traveled up her back until it found a new home on her neck, his grasp wasn't dangerous but it was firm.

Again he lowered his mouth to her ear, this time his voice, while stern, didn't carry the same venom.

"Hate me if you must; as you should." He took a deep breath before continuing, "But _this_," he lightly squeezed her neck for a beat, "_This _will get you killed."

He could see her body tense as he spoke.

"You need only speak to me Sansa, but you will do so with _respect_," his voice became agitated, "You will do so with the tact befitting _my wife_, not some unmuzzled whelp."

"_You lied to me_." Sansa ground the words out, they were catching in her throat. She could no longer find it in herself to cry and it made everything come out angry instead.

She fisted her hands into the fabric at the side of her gown. She was laid out and held down on a desk - she was beginning to feel a fool.

His words were measured and heavily enunciated, "_I did no such thing._" It was as if she had accused him of treason.

Sansa tried to will herself to calm, "The letter-"

Tywin would have none of it, his threadbare patience was now completely gone.

"That _fucking letter_," he hissed at an upper volume, "had been openly sitting on this desk for over a sennight! Does that speak to you of lies and deception?!"

The hand he kept on her neck was tightening in tandem with the raising of his voice.

"_Does it?!_" He shook his hand slightly, as though to rouse her.

"N-no. It doesn't." Sansa was trying to comprehend, calculate and listen all at the same time.

His grip loosed a shade and he took a deep breath - reigning himself in.

"I didn't lay that letter at your feet because it was none of your business. If you wanted to make _it_, or any of them, your business, you've had every opportunity for the better part of a year."

"The choice has always been yours Sansa. I sit here _every_ night," squeezing her neck a tiny amount, "and you choose everything outside joining me."

"I am neither your father, nor your mother; I have no bloody interest in dictating your personal routine."

He added as an afterthought, "Save you giving me reason to."

She could hear his deep intakes of air, his fingers tapping a pattern on her neck before locking a slight grip again.

"You've got what you wanted my lady," he said through clenched teeth, "This ends. _Now_."

He leaned into her ear again, "However, in light of recent events, I would strongly suggest you rethink your previous lack of interest in the affairs of the Hand of the King."

Sansas' face was softer but still twisted in turmoil, her angry eyes tried following every move her husband made.

Tywin removed his hand and stood from his chair, his voice harsh and sardonic, "Unless, of course, you feel I need _even_ _more_ embroidered kerchiefs."

He walked away from the desk.

She couldn't see where he'd gone and took a moment to regain her bearings before attempting to straighten and stand.

It was just as she was about to move to lift herself up from the expansive desktop when she felt a hand wrap itself around the back of her neck.

It was Tywin; she could smell him, hear him breathe.

He didn't speak a word, simply applied a consistent pressure to her neck - holding her down. He wasn't hurting her, but she didn't know his purpose either.

When she felt his groin slowly push into her backside her stomach sank in a cold arc of fear.

Her breathing started to speed and shallow.

Tywin pushed harder into her arse, but she could tell he wasn't aroused. There was no hardness; she knew well what his manhood felt like, straining through his breeches, pressed against her body.

They stayed like that, frozen in their vulgar stance, for several minutes. The crackling of wood in the fire, their breathing - his deep and calm, hers making an attempt to be anything but scared - were the only sounds in the room.

She couldn't see him where he stood, her head was turned to the side and pinned down; it added to the unease, the unknown.

Sansa felt her husbands' fingers squeeze a fraction tighter on her neck, at the same time he pressed a fraction harder into her backside - the front of her thighs picked up more hurt from the where they were pressing into the edge of the desk.

"Anger," he leaned into her further and surprised her by softly dragging the tip of his finger over the upturned palm of her hand, "is the first sign of defeat."

His tone was completely neutral. There was nothing malicious or threatening in the way he spoke to her and it brought Sansa to the outer rim of her discontent.

Tywin all at once let go and stepped away.

She could hear his footsteps receding, moving further and further away until the door opened then closed - ending the sound of him altogether.

It was a lesson.

_This will get you killed_.

Sansa turned her face, brought her arms around, and rested her forehead on the sleeves of her gown; thinking, considering. Not moving from where she was draped; her continued physical and emotional discomfort required to truly understand.

This was Tywins' way of conveying the consequences of her actions.

She had allowed her anger to control her and it made her weak; gave way to her vulnerabilities, and allowed those vulnerabilities to be exploited.

Sansa realized that it didn't just speak of being hauled over a desk. She _was_ angry. She had been angry since her father followed through with the Queens order to kill Lady; since her father was killed, since Arya was lost, since Bran and Rickon...

Even though her perpetual chirping courtesy was able to swallow and mask her rage, it didn't diminish it. No one was able to see her anger, or how it rendered her lacking; the Hound perhaps, but he never understood. No, no one recognized it except her husband.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

Through his actions, Lord Tywin was telling his wife he would not permit her to be soft. Would not tolerate her becoming what so many easily did, because weakness _was_ easy.

His abasement of her was exactly what he thought of willful helplessness.

However, whether she was going to be weak or strong was _her_ choice; just as it was her choice to shy away from his business and remain ignorant under the guise of propriety.

Sansa no longer wanted to be weak or unaware, for no other reason than it was what people, other than Tywin, expected of her.

The more she considered the letter, the more it was understood that she could no more blame him for not being proactive than she could for him not making the choice for her. It was hers to make; he wanted her to make her own choices and her own mistakes.

There _was _success though. She had managed to salvage a mistake and change his mind, change the course of yet another tragedy that was careening into the Starks. Even if he would not allow her to bask in her success, it did not negate the significance; did not negate the fact that he respected her for it.

She managed to smile a little to herself.

Every lesson that day was born of heartache; and every lesson that day would _never_ be forgotten.

By either of them.


	2. emption

**Note: Please be aware of the rating change from T to M**

* * *

His wife had celebrated her nameday shortly before they were married, and Tywin was glad of it.

Not that he wouldn't have wished her to celebrate, in whatever capacity she did at the time, but he would have been bound by duty to entertain and find a gift befitting the stranger she was to him then, and he would have loathed it.

But as he watched her now, her nameday come again, enjoying her feast and the guests that surrounded her - as much as one can enjoy being pestered - Tywin confirmed to himself that this was exactly the way it should be.

She noticed him looking and smiled small then, and Lord Lannister couldn't help but fall in amongst the throngs of men, and women alike, who were enraptured by her.

His wife.

He was sure he would have lost her after she stormed into council, after _everything_ that day. But for as much as he tried to push her away, remove from her the control she was developing, separate her from the impact she was having on him; Sansa came back, ever resilient.

Tywins' mind lightens at the memory of returning to what he thought would be an empty bedchamber, and bed; only to find her sleeping peacefully, like she would any other evening.

"I surely thought you would make use of your own chambers my lady," he had sarcastically remarked to her when he climbed into bed.

Sansa had blinked sleepily and spoke as if _he_ were the child in the room, "My lord, anger is the first sign of defeat," before she waited until he was settled, moved closer, curled up on her side, and rested her forehead against his arm - as she had been, and still was, prone to do.

Tywin Lannister knew then he would not be coddled by his wife; and continuing to fight the changes in her, that he was both cursing and encouraging, was counter productive and a waste of time.

He thought she would be an easy pawn, something to move and use as needed. But his own initiative worked against him when he found that the girl thrived and adapted to the harshest of conditions - _him_; a detail he was a bloody fool, _bloody lucky more like_, to have not recognised before their marriage.

Mayhaps it was her northern blood, some icy resolve, but she had already endured countless months of torture without being outwardly broken, before _he'd_ ever come along.

She had simply needed a catalyst in order to transform; _that _came in the form of safety. He offered her a shelter, a reprieve from violence and oppression, and it was what was needed for her to step forward and become the next version of herself.

He simply wasn't prepared.

She challenged him in a way no woman, or man, had been able to in more than five-and-twenty years; and instead of facing it, he lashed out at it.

But his wife was able to take his malice and convert it into knowledge; swallow the humiliation, of which she was an old hand, and use what was left to fortify her.

Sansa never spoke again of the letter, or her guard, or herself on the desk; but the consequence of his actions was that she would not allow him to touch her when they were alone, not even softly. She would move out of his range, gently brush his hand away, or politely refuse his attempts to be intimate.

The first time she spurned him in their bed, they'd spent almost an hour afterward glancing at each other; him as more of a predator, and her as wary game. In the end it was Sansa who casually turned away and slept, while _he_ silently raged and fumed and resisted his fractious knee-jerk want to wake her and fuck her, as was his _right_, whether she willed it or no.

_Anger is the first sign of defeat._

He had every mind to turn her away the next night, command her to sleep in her own chambers, but when he woke up to her head pressed into his upper arm and her hand resting in a hold on his forearm, the thought of sending her away was forgotten.

As much as he liked to ignore his... _desires_... they were _there_ and they were aggravatingly persistent.

That was two moons ago.

He gave her what she wanted - no physical contact - and in return, Sansa sat with him every night as he sorted, prioritized and corresponded to letters, invoices and assorted legal documentation.

In the first sennight she was a nuisance, he had sent her away the first few evenings with a flick of his hand and a barely concealed insult. However, there she was, night after night, sitting silent - observing at first, reading when he instructed her, and inquiring more confidently as the days progressed.

After the first moon he had her write her first missive on his behalf. It was horrid.

In a script full of girlish flourishes, he took the first four copies she wrote and, without a word or glance at what was written, stood up, walked to the hearth and fed the fire with them.

She had frowned after the eighth attempt was torn in half and finally asked what was the matter.

"I am neither a whore nor a love struck maiden, I would appreciate if you would refrain from writing Lord Sutter in a hand that suggests otherwise." It was a statement that he threw at her completely snarled and brutish, he had humoured her inadequacy enough and just wanted her to go away.

Tywin had watched her jaw work, like she was fighting to say something or deliberating an action; he had expected her to cry or leave altogether, or both if he were perfectly honest. Instead she reached for a leaf of parchment and wrote the letter a ninth time, the final time. It was flawless.

_Sansa came back, ever resilient._

His wife would outlast them all, he knew that for certain, and to be fair, he could admit it without jealousy or contempt. He also knew that only a lackwit wouldn't capitalize on it.

But now, _now_ it would be as much for her sake as it was his.

_Legacy._

She was his and he would make the most of it.

Tywin drifted back from his thoughts and watched as his wife was gifted a scarf by Lady Margaery, and when Sansa blushed hot and red while Lady Tyrell laughed, the lion had to forcibly steer away from his inclination to be cynical of a plot at his expense.

His wife had made a friend of the future queen, as much as one could make friends in Kings Landing, and before his mind could turn the thought bitter he remembered the friendships held dear by his first wife in the very same place.

He was loath to admit that the thought of Joanna didn't hit him with the same empty loneliness it did a year ago, and that only made the guilt harder to choke down. But he was also very aware that as the past year ticked by, thoughts of his first wife, in general, were less frequent; and as he looked at Sansa again, he was equally aware of the reason why.

_A pleasant distraction._ It was the only definition he would allow his mind to grind out.

He flicked his eyes at Lyol, who was standing just outside the servants doors and gave a curt nod.

The steward immediately nodded in confirmation and brought forward the wooden box he had been entrusted with.

As he advanced toward Lady Sansa, other servants took their cue and began clearing a space in front of her.

Lyol set the box down in front of his lady and smiled when she looked at him and offered a courteous thank you.

The pleasantry, meant solely for him, was still new for the steward. No highborn ever _had_ to acknowledge even the existence of those who served them, but Lady Sansa always had; asking with a polite please, and thanking for their service just as sincerely.

The older man, even though lowborn, knew a person's worth - and Lady Sansas' would never be contained in a box, no matter how pretty, no matter the contents. As far as he was concerned, she was priceless.

Sansa stared at the box in front of her, it was square, almost two of her hand-lengths in each direction, and exquisitely carved in intricate patterns and gold inlaid images of lions.

On the front edge of the box there was protruding lion in full roar, made of solid gold, and in its mouth was a key. She turned the key to unlock the box and lifted the lid to find a jewelers bag.

The volume in the room had noticeably dimmed and she couldn't find the courage to look anywhere except in the box, at the satchel to be precise, before she lifted it out carefully.

She was staring at the dark crimson velvet bag, it was heavy and she knew that this would be the day she was to be draped in Lannister gold.

With a well placed smile and a genuine look of appreciation at her husband, she snapped the lead seal and opened the draw string; she tipped the end of the bag in order to handle the contents.

In her palm landed not Lannister gold, not the gold the Queen wore, not gold at all.

It was grey. It wasn't silver, she could see that plainly, it wasn't so deep - it was brighter.

She moved the piece across her fingers, observing the details. It was a thick woven chain of the grey metal, but interwoven into it was the gold she was expecting. _That _gold was only an accent to the brilliant grey.

The chain was the width of two of her fingers, and the clasp was cleverly hidden as links in the back. The chain dipped lower in the front, where it crisscrossed around itself and within the teardrop loop it made was a large deep red jewel - a ruby perhaps, she wasn't well versed in finery as such. It was of the same size and shape as the loop, as though both were made for each other.

At intersecting points of the grey metal along the braided chain were clear white jewels, diamonds she was sure, like her mother used to wear on special occasions, set in even intervals.

There were no lions, nothing overtly _Lannister_. Everything that made it was built on subtlety.

It was... No, _beautiful_ wasn't quite the word she would choose to describe what she thought of the necklace her husband gifted her. She needed another word, something better, but her mind wouldn't let her get past the mesmerizing grey metal.

She turned her head to her husband; he was wearing the same subtle look of smugness he normally did when he had the upperhand, when an advantage was exclusive to him alone.

Sansa gave Tywin the smile she knew he was looking for, the one that was meant only for him; made with her eyes as much as her mouth.

Her smile was sincere; she meant it truly and felt no need to hide that fact.

It was a private moment in a room full of people.

"What type of metal is this?" She was idly thumbing along the grooves of the weave.

"Gold."

He twitched out a smirk at Sansas' incredulous look.

"The metallurgists call it _white_-gold," he took the piece from her hand and stood, talking and pacing behind her at the same time, "It will not rust or corrode, it carries the same properties as the gold you know - just not the colour."

Sansa felt him unclasp the fine silver rope with drips of pearls, removing it, and smiled wider as she watched her new necklace lower into place in front of her.

She leaned her head forward as he secured the clasp.

Her hair was worn up and elaborate for this event and it gave him easy access to work as he needed; it also gave him an unimpeded view of her long neck, of the wisps of loose and wild auburn at the base her hairline, of the subtle knob of spine where her neck met her shoulders - accentuated by her leaning forward.

As she tilted her face downward she flicked her eyes upward in order to watch the people in the room.

It was a relatively new practice she had developed; she would casually observe those around her and her husband; watching them react to what she was sure was foreign behaviour from the Great Lion.

If he touched her, or held her hand, or leaned in close to speak to her, it usually resulted in a few heads turned, raised brows and, as was now the case with Cersei, looks of unrestricted hatred.

Every person in the room seemed to focus on them - on her husband actually. They watched his every move and she could clearly see the assessment of risks and possibilities in the eyes of some men.

They were gaging Lord Tywin for weakness: His wife.

She watched those same men frown in disappointment; their queries answered she supposed, and she couldn't decide is she, herself, was disappointed too.

When Tywin finished clasping the necklace, he let his thumb linger on the soft skin at the back of her neck; they were in public and he would be damned if he wasn't going to make the most of it.

He took his time and with his calloused pad, brushed a subtle line above the gold Sansa now wore, and watched - satisfied, as a flush of pink ascended from under the neckline of her gown.

The evening proceeded with more food, more wine, dancing and even more gifts, and Tywin tolerated it all. It's not that he owed his wife this, or anything at all, but there had been a tug somewhere under the flesh and bone of him that simply _wanted_ this for her.

Every once in awhile a small shift in his periphery would summon his attention; he would watch Sansa, in a movement that looked to be subconscious, raise her hand and run her fingertips along the braid of northern-hued gold.

She liked his gift, relished it perhaps, and he was glad of it.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was late when they returned to their apartments, but there was always work to do.

He assumed his wife would retire after enjoying her nameday celebration; but was pleased she followed his lead by sitting in her chair behind the desk.

Her chair was a comfortably heavy thing, another gift he had commissioned for her; this one in appreciation of her new, and truly genuine, piqued interest in his work and the reality of regency.

To witness a transformation like hers, from self-imposed ignorance to self-imposed competence, was something he would never tire of.

It was the same enthusiasm he implored of Jaime, the same ardour he doused in Cersei, and the natural gift he, both equally, loathed and ignored in Tyrion.

But Sansa was not his child, she was his wife, and her want of knowledge was something he could pride _himself_ in; because regardless of long-held social expectations, the astuteness of one's wife reflected extremely well on that husband.

In that moment, however, he was not observing her learn; he was watching her appraise his other gift.

She had been looking down at the finery since she became seated; smiling at it, her mind working, her fingers going over the intricate folds, bends, and intertwined strands of white and yellow gold.

"It suits you well my lady." His voice was low; he hadn't truly thought to speak the words.

Sansa looked at her husband and smiled, then quickly dropped it.

"But not this gown, my lord."

She said it in a tone that implied something was truly wrong. That this was a matter of importance, and before Tywin would sneer at her and her foolishness, his wife was striding toward the bedchamber and summoning her handmaids.

He blinked quickly to himself and swallowed his irritation. Sometimes he forgot that his wife still had elements of frivolous uselessness, that of a giddy maiden. But this was her nameday and if he couldn't afford her _some_ leeway, he was sure it would result in other restrictions placed on him.

After a while he heard her handmaids leave and secure the servants door.

As he read and jotted notes, he prepared himself to offer whatever courtly nicety that was required for a girl who thought her dress didn't match her necklace. He absently practiced in his head how to hide the fact that he just didn't care.

At the same time, his periphery picked up her movement as she walked into the room and stopped several paces away from the front of his - _their_ - desk.

Tywin flicked his eyes at his wife and tried for the life of him not to look annoyed, but what he took in was confusing.

Her garment was overly long, bulky, and dark crimson. His first inclination was to tell her she made no improvement, until his mind registered familiarity.

It was _his_ robe.

He raised his head then, and noticed that his wife was holding his robe around her, her hair no longer pinned - flowing freely down her back and her shoulders.

She wasn't really smiling, but her eyes were heated, and in one fluid motion she shrugged the robe off her, letting it pile at her feet.

His wife was standing there, in front of him, completely naked save for the necklace he gave her.

Lord Lannister had to clench his back teeth in order to stifle the moan that would have tumbled out of his mouth. At the same time, a tidal wave of arousal washed down his body to settle in his groin.

Sansa could see the heat instantly reflect in her husbands eyes. But just as quickly he looked back down at the work he was involved in prior, as he continued his reading and writing.

She waited until she was positive he had no interest, she was also positive that she initiated her own humiliation. It was a risk, to be sure, but not one she truly anticipated.

When she made to turn and ready herself for sleep her husband spoke.

"_Don't_," he was still looking down at the letter in his hand, then flicked a fierce glance directly at her, "_move_," then returned his focus to the letter again.

She stood completely still.

Tywin finished his task then took his time clearing parchments and inkwells. Preparing his desk for the next night, as was his habit - not paying the slightest bit of attention to his naked wife.

It was when he stood that he finally allowed himself to look at her.

Standing stone-still behind his desk, he mapped every inch of her with his eyes; the fire of her hair, the sky of her eyes, the milk of her skin, the light pink of her nipples. He could feel his lower back start to perspire.

Her husband swallowed hard before he was able to walk around the front of his desk; her mind smiled as she watched.

She didn't speak a word, simply observed him move no further than several paces in front of her. His chest was clearly raising and lowering more than usual, his hands were clenching and unclenching at his side, his jaw was flexing and grinding.

For a frightening instant Sansa considered regret of what she had instigated; but her husband made no sudden movements. Instead he slowly placed one foot in front of the other - as though he were taming an animal, _or hunting one_.

He walked purposefully to a position behind her, but when he went to settle his fingertips on her shoulder, she swayed out of range like she had for the past two moons.

Tywins' first proclivity was to touch her in the way he wanted to, regardless - to _make_ her let him; but his second was to stray away from who he was expected to be.

"May I touch you?"

His question was softly hummed and spoken mostly to her hair; she had grown taller in the past year and he didn't have to lean so far in order to become close.

Sansa didn't spare her husband a look, but spoke with the sweet voice that was _her_, "Not with your hands my lord."

He tilted his head and gave her a look that said _Do you know who you are speaking to?_, but it was to the back of her auburn tresses and a useless gesture.

Tywin was at a crossroads.

This was where his actions would determine the rest of their existence together.

_Face the challenge or lash out against it_, his mind was simmering for the latter.

It was a choice; _the_ choice she gave him to make.

She closed her eyes and waited. Sansa knew that he could take her in any manner he saw fit - he _was_ her husband and it was his right by law of gods and man.

But this was a calculated gamble, this was not something she devised on a whim. Part of her missed the intimacy, and yet another part of her _had _to know what her future with him held.

She stood still and only flinched the tiniest amount when she heard him utter a growling noise behind her.

She knew then he would force her; so she squeezed her eyes shut tighter and prepared herself for the degradation that was to follow.

When he was on her, Sansa had to blink her eyes open to associate the feeling with a visual representation of the act.

Glancing over, she saw his face at her shoulder, his lips planting soft open mouthed kisses across the top ridge, moving steadily toward her neck; he had his arms tucked back behind him, well away from her.

Sansa smiled wide and natural - as if it emanated from her heart. A smile she only offered when she was truly happy. It was a rarity; so much so, she once thought it to be extinct altogether.

He stopped kissing her, rested his cheek on her shoulder and angled his vision so he could take in the smile she was wearing. It was something that only seemed to make her lovelier.

It was also hypnotizing; he caught himself staring, mouth gaped like a fish, and had to remind himself what he was doing to begin with.

Sansa picked up on that detail and laughed a sound that matched her smile.

Tywin _hated_ laughter, it sparked his ire and suspicion all at the same time.

Not this though. No, _this_ was something so beyond mocking and even humour that it caused him to look away in what felt like panic. Caused him to plant his lips on her shoulder again. Caused him to press the smallest of hidden smiles into her skin.

It was contagious and he found it impossible to define the right kind of displeasure to associate with it.

He started kissing again. Moving closer and closer to her neck, all but breathing, "May I move your hair?"

She could hear him inhaling her scent, growling in the back of his throat.

Without a word, Sansa moved her shoulders forward and to the side slightly and caught her hair herself, moving the auburn bundle to the front of her.

His breath was hot on the back of her neck, and when she leaned her head forward, like she had when he fastened her necklace, his groan was loud enough to be felt on her skin.

Sansa felt light presses of his lips marching up the back of her neck and playful licks and nips marching back down; it was her turn to groan.

Tywin leaned forward a small amount in order to reach his mouth the side of her neck and under her ear. His chest was resting on her back as he did so, but when he felt her arse press back onto his cock, he sucked in a deep breath and stood up straight.

"Sansa, do that again." When nothing happened, he followed a hunch and added, "_Please_."

He wasn't sure he even spoke until she bucked herself back and ground on him.

Bending his knees to get the most direct friction, Tywin had to stick his arms straight out to his sides - he was losing concentration by aborting his instinct to grab her hips and pull her onto him harder.

Just as he was starting to lose his bearings, his wife stepped away from him, taking her friction with her.

"_Fuck..._" it was said purely out of irritation.

Sansa didn't look back, she just kept walking until she rounded the back of the desk where their chairs were and sat squarely on the desktop, squarely where Tywin would normally work.

He walked again to his wife, following her path around the desk until he was standing in front of, and over her.

Tywin reached for her, his motion gentle and considerate, but his wife stayed his hands by holding his wrists.

"_No_."

She said it softly, her eyes locked to his.

He could read nothing in her impossibly blue eyes other than desire and it was what was needed to fully extinguish his frustration.

Tywin watched silently as she laid back on the desktop, her body given to him willingly, wantonly.

The way it should be.

Lord Lannister would _never_ admit regret or error in any action he has taken, but the treatment of his wife two moons ago was edging dangerously close.

Sansa spread her thighs and willed her husband to understand, he did, of course.

He stepped in closer to her, he could feel the heat of her seeping through the fabric of his breeches, making his cock unbearably hard.

He growled as he bent and hovered over her upper body, his feet planted on the floor, his hands firmly set to either side of her - not touching.

At the same time, she had started to tug and pull at his clothing. Her delicate fingers were masterfully working the equally delicate clasps and fastenings of his doublet.

He smirked at her deftness, but was thwarted when he swayed upright again to try and remove it.

The garment was tight in the sleeves and he normally had the help of someone attending him to take it off, but before his frustration could click to fury, little hands were again capable. Holding firm at his cuff in order to assist - it was exactly what was needed.

Doublet removed, he watched as his wife reached for the lower end of his tunic - pulling with a little more fervor to dislodge it from where it had been tucked. It was only moment before that layer was discarded as well.

He covered her again, hands far to the side, this time wallowing in the sensation of skin on skin. The softness of the skin on her belly was all it took for his mind to begin to blur. He lowered himself even more and groaned slightly at the feel of her hard nipples rubbing into his chest - and equally, the swell of her breasts becoming a fleshy resistance.

But it was when both of _her_ hands traveled from his shoulders, down his flanks, made their way into the gap where his breeches had come away from his back and took a firm hold of his arse that Tywin felt the familiar pang of tightening in his chest. The same pang that had made its way into his life since the onset of his marriage to Sansa.

The feeling he now finally, _finally_, understood, and almost feared.

She made him feel young.

Sansa removed the taunt and worry of age, and as much as he felt it had never mattered before, Tywin lived the truth of it.

Some men lost themselves to drink, some lost themselves to blood and war, and some lost themselves to women - much like his father did.

Tywin looked down at his young wife and knew without a doubt he was nothing like his father and that Sansa was _nothing_ like the conniving whore his sire willingly saddled himself wi-

His mind switched over completely when Sansa wrapped her legs around his waist, brought her arms up around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.

She whispered, "_Come back_," before fitting her lips over his.

He _was _indeed lost...

Tywin groaned into her mouth and clenched his fingers hard into the wood of the desk in order to dissuade their craving to travel the expanse of her body.

In lieu of his hands he used his tongue and lips to quench his tactile thirst. First her mouth, then her jawline, then her neck.

His mouth journeyed down the length of her throat to her chest, where he licked across her collarbone and further down to her breasts.

He took his time, savouring each mound and peak with his lips, his tongue and the barest of his teeth; pressing soft kisses to the sensitive underside of each breast.

Sansa was breathing moans of her own, squirming mindlessly under him, with her eyes shut and her fingers digging into the back of his neck.

His mouth moved down her body, his hands remained palms-down on the top of the desk, her own hands slipped from their hold on him and rested beside her.

She could feel his mouth moving lower and she was curious as to what he had planned once he reached her heat. She asked him not to use his hands, so she assumed he would stand and take her - as was his only option.

That was, of course, until he dropped to his knees and placed his mouth on her _there_.

When Tywin pressed his tongue into her folds and licked firmly, all the way to the top of her slit, his wife moaned at a volume he was certain she did not register herself.

He kept his lips locked over her nub and was idly flicking it with his tongue, as his eyes roamed; first to the door to ensure no one was stupid enough to investigate _that_ noise, then down to Sansa.

Her eyes were closed, her body was writhing and arching and shuddering under the attentions of his mouth.

He could feel his cock straining in his breeches, just as much as he could feel it leaking and jumping in anticipation. Relief was needed; and before he could think about it, his mouth lifted and spoke.

"May I touch myself?"

It seemed a natural question seeing as she didn't want him to use his hands, but he didn't know if she meant only on her.

"_No._" It sounded dazed and was accompanied by her shaking her head wildly, her eyes still clamped shut.

He shouldn't have said a gods-damned thing.

Tywin opted to inflict his frustration with his tongue, and set to lashing her bud with furious abandon. But it was when he moved to her entrance and started to push his tongue inside her that she started to shake and falter.

She was no longer moaning and humming, she was groaning out syllables and consonants, never truly finding words.

And when she was surely ready to release, he pulled away from her completely - watching her hips churn, as though her wetness was looking for him.

He smirked, having regained an element of control.

He was sitting up on his knees, looking over the topography of his wife, watching her movements diminish.

He planted wet kisses on each of her inner thighs, "May I use my fingers," he kissed her again, this time closer to her core, "inside you?"

Her eyes blinked open as she stared at the ceiling; he could see her making her choice. She didn't look at him directly, instead she nodded and let out a breathy, "_Yes_..."

Tywin first licked then pressed his mouth over her heat, licking and kissing it as though it was her own mouth.

Concentrating the movement of his tongue over the most sensitive part of her again, he sucked and flicked until she was bucking once more.

He moved only one hand, leaving the other clamped to the edge of the desk, and made room under his chin, teasing her opening with first one finger, then two.

Sansa didn't last long when he flicked his tongue at a steady cadence and fucked her with two fingers in the same rhythm. Her hands made to hold onto the flat desktop as she lost all control, finding her release in shaky stuttered movements and random gasps of air.

She was so wet, the sound of his fingers working her lather nearly unmanned him.

Her hands were suddenly pushing his head away from her heat, now far too sensitive to even enjoy his tongue.

Tywin sat back on his heels, catching his breath, looking at the part of a woman that was known to conquer lands and give life.

He resisted the urge, once again, to caress his wife - this time out of awe, not want.

There on the floor, his age settled on him like a heavy cloak; his knees were protesting, his lower back was burning and, in a maneuver that was less graceful than he would have hoped, he lifted himself into his chair.

He sat slack, his back curved low and in a posture that would never be associated with Tywin Lannister; but through his half lids, and at that particular angle, he could watch his wife descend from her peak.

There was nothing else he wanted occupying his vision; her breasts slowing their rise and fall, the small quivers still rippling through her belly and abdomen, her lips slightly parted and a rosy blush going no further than her cheeks signifying the tiniest of deaths.

_A pleasant distraction..._

Sansa only attempted to sit up when she felt whole again. When she did, she watched her husband sit up a little straighter in his chair.

Without a word between them, Sansa moved off the desk and tested her legs while she was still holding the edge before she trusted them to hold her weight.

Once she was sure of herself, she pushed off the desk and made the three step journey to Tywin.

His hands were resting in a usual position on the arms of the chair, so she held onto his wrists as she climbed atop his lap.

He raised his knees to help accommodate how she was sitting - further back on his legs than in his lap properly; and when he watched her hands reach for the laces of his breeches, he fully understood the reason for her position.

Again Tywin went to touch her, and again Sansa thwarted his attempt by gently placing his hands back on the arms of the chair and telling him, _no_.

Anger was starting to trickle into his disposition.

Tywin humoured her game this long, but now it was about his need. He was of a mind to tell her to either fuck him or leave, but when she freed his cock and started stroking him in her perfectly dainty hand he, again, fell victim to her _distraction_.

He was mulling the fact that one could not be a victim if they were a willing participant, when his wife shuffled forward, somewhat awkwardly, on her knees, leaned up and kissed him.

This time she didn't have to ask him to come back - she knew how to retrieve him herself.

Their bodies were so close - heating, his cock was so close - rubbing, her mouth was so warm - kissing, her hands were all over him - petting.

It was too much, his vision was blurring.

"_Put my cock in you, girl,_" he growled into her hair and around deep, uneven breathing, "_Now._"

Sansa sat up taller on her knees and lined him up to her entrance, she watched him watching her folds sink lower onto his manhood. Watched him squeeze his eyes shut as he moaned a shivering breath out.

The position was not new to her, but the confines of a chair were, it caused her to grind into him more than move up and down; and after a handful of minutes Tywin ground out each individual word, "_May I touch you?_"

She placed a hand on either side of his face and waited until he was looking at her, albeit through wavering lust-filled eyes, and smiled, "Yes."

The word was hardly spoken before his hands were touching every reachable place on her; it was a flurry, like he couldn't decide what to do first.

She wrapped her arms around his neck as she felt his hands first move to her backside in order to lift and push her down a few times, then wrap around her in an embrace that pulled her into his body.

His release was barreling in on him.

He held her, one arm around her waist, one arm crossing her back, his hand holding onto her shoulder, tight.

The lion pulled down on each point of contact, trying for the life of him to be as completed with his wife as possible.

And when he spent himself as deep within her as he could be, he heard her name on his lips with every huffed exhale.

Tywin didn't care. He would say her prayer if it meant feeling like _that_, with her, again and again.

They stayed that way, her lying flush to his chest with her face tucked into the side of his neck, him still holding her in a tight embrace - his release not diminishing the strength in which he held her, until their skin began cooling noticeably.

Usually Tywin would leave her after a few minutes to wash and bring her a cloth to do the same, but this time he just held on to her. Their breathing returned to a normalized pattern and he still held on to her. Her calves and feet were starting to tingle with numbness and he still held on to her.

When she started to move her face around to his she noticed her arms were wrapped around his neck and head in the exact manner his were around her body; Sansa inwardly smiled at, and shunned in the same instance, the pretty ideas their position had unburied in her memory.

She brought her face directly in front of his and was taken by the look in his eyes. He was distracted, a look she knew well to mean he was deliberating, making a decision of some sort.

It was only when his wife kissed him that Tywin was delivered from his thoughts. And normally what he would curse as levity, this time he welcomed.

He kissed her back, equally as gentle, equally as long.

Sansa pulled away slightly as if to make sure her husband was alright, he answered by inclining his head toward her.

She leaned back a little, watching as he lowered his face and planted a kiss below the base of her throat, directly above where her necklace looped. He looked up again and she kept gazing at the large red jewel perched high on her chest.

"_Beautiful._"

Tywin said the word like he was sharing a secret and Sansa placed her fingers over the gem, smiling, "It is, my lord."

But when she lifted her eyes to meet his, her smile fell; not out of fear, and not out of turmoil, but of the realization that Tywin hadn't been looking at the necklace to begin with.


	3. uced

Lord Tywins' page found Sansa sitting with Lady Margaery, and a handful of other ladies of court, in the future queens solar.

It wasn't often Tywin sent for her during the day but when he did so it was normally to be of company to Tommen or request her presence on behalf of Cersei.

Her lord husband refused his daughter the right to summon his wife directly; and even then, Tywin would usually accompany her.

Sansa didn't know this page, he had a new face, but he was very much a Lannister with his golden hair and green eyes; though the green eyes looking at her presently were very nervous.

She knew the overwhelming feeling of being in Kings Landing for the first time - and in the company of her husband, in general, for that matter.

"Do you know why Lord Tywin has asked for me?" She was inquiring for no other reason than to help calm the boy.

"I- I think there is corre- corres-... A letter... Yours... For you, I mean. Lady- my lady." The young lad blushed a crimson his house would be proud of.

Sansa smiled at him, and it only seemed to make the poor boy blush hotter.

"Thank you..." She waited for him to supply his name but he was at a total loss; his lady mercifully let him off the hook, "_Ser_."

From behind her, she could hear her guard snigger in good humour.

With a slight nod from her, the page knew to start walking.

They traveled quietly; sometimes she let the page lead her, sometimes she gently steered the boy down the correct hallways and corridors, all the while mulling over her letter.

She had a good idea as to what it was.

A reply from her mother.

Just the thought of it made her stomach flutter and her smile widen. It had been months, but she was patient if anything, and now she would have contact with her family.

_Her family._

Sansa had to resist the urge to leave her escort and guard and start running. _No_, she told herself, she had waited _this_ long - a few more minutes were practically nothing.

She honestly didn't care what the letter might say, or not say, as long as she was in communication with her mother and brother.

What she felt in conjunction with the absence of anyone familiar was a physical pain - one she had swallowed and endured for far too long.

But to be fair, her husband was no longer such a stranger, and that helped to alleviate some of the weight her loneliness placed on her.

There was now a cognition and routine in their relationship; not to say it was flawless, she still stood in the path of his fury and bore witness to his cruelty, but she was now far better equipped to withstand it and cope when it _did_ occur.

It was enough that she wasn't _so_ alone, _so_ much.

When she thought of their intimacy, outside their impeccable court persona, it was _her_ who was stained a shade of red that all but painted a picture of what her memory was conjuring.

Her knowing smile only confirmed it.

She like that time with him. Tywin was neither a lord nor a lion; just as she wasn't a stupid northerner or a traitor's daughter. When they were laid bare to one another there was no room for titles or labels; they were just a man and a woman, no more no less.

Even _that _journey, she mused to herself, the one to be comfortable with each other privately, required and extensive amount of trial and error.

Now though, in those times, Sansa witnessed heartbeats of vulnerability and moments of happiness in Tywin Lannister, and she could only assume that, like her, they were glimpses of the person his life left behind.

Not forgotten, no, these were parts of them that lost distance and caught up in times of enjoyment, when their hardened-selves were forced to rest; only to be once again left behind at the mention or action of reality.

Sansa could only assume, hope really, that her mother would approve of the slivers of peace she had carved out in a marriage that still caused people to grimace and judge her at its very mention.

Her mind wandered back to her mother.

Once communication was established, Sansa planned, if possible, to help bring maybe not an _end_, but maybe an _interruption _to a war that had lasted into a more perilous time.

_Winter Is Coming_.

It was the truth of it. Even in Kings Landing the days were cooler and the nights were stretching longer.

She knew she would never convince Robb, or the north as a whole, to swear fealty to Joffrey, nor would she want to try - even with the carefully worded suggestions and pretty gifted trinkets from her husband, hoping to convince her to do just that.

She smiled again, then let it flatten.

The possibility of actually _seeing _her mother again was not one she dwelled on for terribly long. Sansa knew her role as the wife of the enemy would have its price, but for even the slightest bit of calm she would gladly pay it, _and_ _continue to pay it_.

When she arrived and was announced, she was somewhat confused that he was alone; Ser Kevan was _always_ there, smiling kindly to her from his brothers side. Today, from what she could see, he was nowhere within.

But even her good-brothers absence wouldn't deter her from the giddy happiness welling inside her.

When Tywin noticed her, he stood and rounded to the table he used as his desk in that room.

She noticed him pick up a parchment as he went, and was certain it belonged to her.

His face was ever-serious, but it was also holding a scowling frown.

Sansa knew then that what her mother must have wrote was either displeasing to her husband, or directly slandering him. She was prepared; there were already mental contingency plans in place to placate whatever wounded pride Tywin might suffer from whatever disapproval her mother or brother may have communicated.

When she got closer, she could clearly see his eyes were agitated, like when he was angry, so she started the cogs and wheels turning in preparation for tending to his wounded ego.

As Sansa stopped within an arms length of her husband, she reached her hand out and ran the tips of her fingers from the top of his collar to the middle of his doublet, and rested there.

His eyes showed surprise at first, then softened slightly in the midst of his stony expression.

It was as she had planned; and when he raised his own hand to caress her jawline, she knew her initial tactics were successful.

Sansa smiled at him and tilted her head slightly to lean into his touch; at the same time she moved the hand that rested on his doublet over to the letter he was holding, and gently plucked it out of his grasp.

She moved her face upright, out of his palm, in order to read the parchment; she felt his now empty hand travel down her neck and shoulder, further until it settled on her elbow. He cupped it, as though to help prop her arm up, assisting her to read.

The smile she beamed at her serious, humourless, husband would not be dimmed; the happiness she felt at finally, _finally _communicating with her family would not be diminished.

She read.

...

_Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, Hand of the King:_

_Rumour of massacre at The Twins of those attending the wedding of Edmure Tully Lord Paramount of the Trident, Lord of Riverrun - confirmed._

_ Ambush against the northern constituency by Lord Walder Frey of the Twins, Lord of the Crossing - confirmed._

_ Secondary implementation from within the northern ranks, rumoured Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort - unconfirmed (presumed). _

_ Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell, dead - confirmed._

_ Northern military hierarchy - both dead and captured (unconfirmed/unreliable numbers and names)_

_ Lady Catelyn Stark, dead - unconfirmed (presumed)._

_ Northern army scattered, disbanded - confirmed (varying reports)._

_ More information to follow._

_Ser Flement Brax, Commander, 2nd Lannister Mounted Company_

_..._

Sansas' mind was surprised at how calm the rest of her was.

Until the information sunk in.

_...Robb Stark, dead..._

_...Catelyn Stark, dead..._

The words filtered through to where they were processed and understood; in the place where the impact of such things caused her throat to thicken and her muscles to shiver.

She felt her husbands hand tighten on her elbow.

Her body reacted before her mind; she was helpless to watch, first her arm arc upward, then, as it came down strong - her hand slapped Tywin squarely in the face.

She didn't clip his facial hair, there was no muffled thump; there was only the sound of a palm meeting it's mark.

It was a sharp pointed noise that pierced the air of the room.

Sansa wanted _him_ to hurt_ too_. Her husband _should_ hurt. _He_ should be the one to hurt most of all.

She wanted the darkness that was devouring her to swallow him as well. _He_ should be the meal this time; sating the hungry belly of emotional agony.

But when she looked at him there was nothing of the smug arrogance that was _supposed_ to be there, there was only a clenched jaw and a look of pity.

She didn't want his _pity_! She wanted his _ire_!

She wanted to evoke something in him that would ensure she would _feel_ - feel _anything_ other than squeezing hurt around her heart.

So when she struck him a second time it was with the heel of her hand.

The noise _that_ time was not one made of sharp blades, but one made of blunt ends.

She didn't care.

When the red began to trickle out of his mouth, she didn't care.

When he made no effort to harm her in return, she didn't care.

The hurt was spreading, making her fingers and toes numb. Her lips were cold and her legs started to ache. Her lungs burned with every breath and her jaw was set so tight she thought it would break.

The room was beginning to feel like a corset; strings being yanked and pulled from all angles, tightening and binding and suffocating.

She needed to escape.

She needed to be out of the den of lions... and stags... and thorny roses... and whispers and blood.

Tywin still held her elbow and when Sansa made to wrench herself free, he held it even tighter.

_There _was the pain she had wanted, but _that _moment had already passed - now, _now _she only wanted to leave.

She wrenched again, glad of the alternate hurt and furious at the resistance.

His mouth was moving, but the sound was blocked out by the ringing in her ears.

She wrenched a third time, and _that _time she found her freedom. Not that she won it by a show of strength, she was merely let go.

Her lord husband wore a look he had absolutely _no_ right to - _sympathy_.

She wanted _nothing_ of it. He wasn't _allowed _that look, not for _her_, not for _anyone_!

Sansa backed away from the man like he was a disease.

He _was_ a disease, an infection, a plague in her life; and when he attempted to reach for her, she backed away even more, quicker, so as not to be tainted further.

Tywin stopped trying; talking to her, reaching for her, offering her what pathetic comfort a man like him could.

And when she swung around, turning her back to him, he didn't stop her.

No one stopped her.

It was like she was, yet again, some plaything in those horrible games those horrible people delighted in.

They all knew her secret before she did.

So, she ran.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He saw her shoulders tense at the sound of him entering the part of the godswood she had sought refuge in; but his gait was as stunted as his body, and he took comfort in knowing she would soon recognize her company.

Tyrion had envied her initially, and was, perhaps, jealous of Sansas' relationship with his sire.

It seemed to reaffirm the unfairness of his own life when the daughter of a traitor, the sluff of the king, was better received and more trusted in his fathers circle than flesh and blood.

It was when he witnessed Lord Tywins' annoyance with her, as they were sat at a meal attended by family in the first few days of their marriage, that allowed his assumption that she was no more an object of affection as she was a pet to train.

But when Tyrion made the effort to talk to her, to _really _talk to her, he knew she was no mere pet, not in the slightest; he knew Sansa was a blank page vying for ink.

So when he saw his father publicly inflict his impatience on his new wife yet again, he ignored the bright noise of Lord Tywin and paid particular attention to the undertones of Lady Sansa.

_She_ was patience; the epitome of sufferance in an onslaught of intolerance. In that same moment his jealousy turned to admiration, and Tyrion knew this girl would be one to ally himself with.

Over the months though, the focus of his involvement with Lady Sansa turned from one of leverage and advantage over his father, to one of honest friendship.

He found that his fathers wife had the uncanny trait to enchant, but it was more than the simple charm possessed by most women; it was the ability to draw fascination from even the most unlikely of places.

Though, what separated Sansa from everyone else was that she had no idea of, or want to misuse, her gift - which, in and of itself, _was_ _bloody charming_.

And he _knew_, after over a year of marriage, _within the first months if he were to be honest with himself_, that his omnipotent father was just as much smitten with his wife's charm as anyone else.

Tyrion could see the way his father looked at Sansa, there were brief looks of longing and appreciation; looks that would be dismissed or misinterpreted by anyone else.

The way Lord Tywin sometimes looked at Lady Sansa was what Tyrion often dreamt was the way his father looked at his own mother, once; and for foolish instances he would willingly carry the guilt and shame his father heaped on him for taking that away.

But those moments were fleeting, and his like of Lady Sansa could not be tarnished.

His attention once again settled on the form he was drawing near.

Even though he readied as he thought best, bringing extra kerchiefs in preparation for tears and woe, he approached this young woman, his fathers wife, with a caution reserved for a battle with the unknown.

As he got closer to her, he could see that she was kneeling, her back in flawless posture as always. Her head was slightly bent and she was looking at her hands, more precisely, a letter clutched in her fingers.

She didn't speak or even acknowledge his advance, she just kept looking down, deep in thought.

As he slowed to a stop by her side and carefully fell into a seated position beside her on the mossy ground, he could see clearly that she wasn't crying.

In fact, her face looked as though she had yet to shed _any _tears, and, in considering her further, Tyrion couldn't decide if he was feeling wonderment or dread.

He spoke gently, "Mother."

Sansas' features smoothed slightly, but she did not look at him, "Son."

What was once a contentious name Tyrion used to rouse whatever reaction he could out of his fathers bride, had become a term of endearment; more so when Sansa developed her own.

It was a greeting, a plan to meet and talk, a connection, something only known and used privately between them; and depending on the inflection used, their two words spoke an entire conversation.

Mostly though, it spoke of the ridiculousness of it all, the understanding of it all, and of their shared defiance; the latter being something Tyrion was more than happy to instruct Sansa on how to revel in.

They sat silently together for what felt like hours, taking in the calm of their surroundings and the quiet comfort of each others presence.

In truth, Tyrion needed time to build his courage.

"I..." He aborted his attempt at empathy. It was not what she wanted or needed; and suddenly he, the verbal tactician, was at a loss for words entirely.

She answered his fumble in a tired soft tone, "Please don't say you're sorry."

He sighed, "I won't, but it doesn't change the fact that I _am_."

She looked down, blinked a few times and smirked a tiny amount, "It would imply you carry fault."

He looked sidelong at her and spoke with a smile in his voice, "And for you to _even _say that means you are being influenced entirely too much by _him_."

Sansa lost her smirk and the pitiful amount of happiness she showed only moments before.

"I am nothing like _him_, he murdered them." Her tone was built somewhere between terrified child and grief stricken.

Tyrion sat contemplating for quite a while before deciding what she needed to hear, what he needed to say.

"You're half right."

He employed a somber tone and was completely confident Sansa would connect his reply with her statement, regardless of the amount of time that had passed.

She looked at him then, turning her head only slightly toward her good-son.

He looked at her in return and continued, "Is that what you believe? That he murdered them?"

Tyrion watched her breath deeply in preparation for honesty, doubly allowing her to take her time in answering.

"No." She let out a long tired exhale, "That's not what I _believe_."

Her voice cracked into the sadness that had been expected in her to begin with, "But he didn't _save_ them either."

He could see her fists clench and her body tense again, the paper in her hand crackled under the stress and pressure of her fingers, and he couldn't help but make the ominous comparison to the young lady holding it.

"Did you _really_ expect him to?" It was an awful question regardless of the softness in which it was presented; not in that it was _asked_, but because it _had_ to be.

_Yes!_, her mind shrieked at her, _Yes! That's what husbands do! That's what men do for their wives! ...That's what my father would have done for my mother! That's what marriage is supposed to mean! Love-_

"No." The finality in her voice made Tyrion cringe.

Sansa _did_ accomplish something astounding though; something Cersei cursed her openly for, something Kevan admired her openly for, and something he momentarily thought was some grand mystery - until he remembered _the look_, and who exactly it was pertaining to, and took back any amazement he had spared.

But it didn't mean her feat was meaningless or any less astounding.

"_You_ changed his mind Sansa. _You_ altered the path of the Great Lion of Casterly Rock," he rested his hand on her forearm, "_No one_ could do that, but _you _did."

Sansa turned her head minutely, just enough to catch his eye, her voice was flat, "They're still dead. I _changed_ nothing."

Tyrion squeezed her arm to gain her attention wholly, "You're wrong and you know it," he narrowed his eyes at her, "Tell me my lady, what was the result of your actions?"

She looked at him, half annoyed, half considering his query internally.

"Removing the crown from the plot at the Twins." Her voice was tired again, she didn't care about useless information.

Tyrion took a deep breath and smiled thoughtfully at her; at the same time he made to stand, awkwardly, using her forearm as leverage - he had never been graceful when it came to the mechanics of anatomy.

"Yes, now," he was still grunting as he was straightening, "_Who_ are you?"

She didn't understand his game, more so, she didn't want to play, "Your _mother_." She was agitated.

Tyrion narrowed his eyes again and, now that he was of height with the kneeling girl, he reached out and flicked a finger against her forehead.

The gesture, albeit a surprise, was one of annoyance and one that told her she was thinking lazily.

He leaned in, almost nose-to-no-nose, and measured each word, "_Who are you?_"

Sansa inhaled deeply, speaking at a whisper on the exhale, "Lady _Lannister_, wife of Tywin Lannister."

Tyrion, stood up straight and smiled kindly before he nodded and went to leave.

As he was moving he again spoke, "Yes, Lady _Lannister_, and since the crown has no ties to this abhorrent viciousness," he turned to look at his friend then, and spoke in voice of sincere authority, "It seems you have quite a debt to pay."

With that, Tyrion turned fully and made his way out of the godswood.

Sansa watched him leave then looked down at the parchment in her hand. She felt her body go hot; wave after wave of heat cascaded from the top of her head, downward.

She was being showered in the prospect of vengeance. She was tasting blood in her mouth and feeling flesh give way under her fingers. She was vibrating in it.

But the revenge she wanted was unattainable; to be able to swing the blade herself, to administer justice, that was desperately needed, by her own hand.

Howbeit, she wasn't that person; she knew that well enough.

What she _was_ more than capable of, however, was thought and process. So, instead of focusing on what she _wanted _to do, she calculated what she _could _do.

In the frightening details of her considerations she found answer after answer and, in turn, she found a new blackness that smothered and numbed the hurt inside her.

It was as she basked in the freedom from her heartache, embraced the cool detachment that ended her torment, that she happened to glance at the parchment again.

_Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, Hand of the King_

What she read was the title of a man who was feared, a man who was passionately ruthless, and a man who approached life with cool detachment.

_I am nothing like him._

She accepted then that she wasn't _that _person either, and set about fighting the blackness back into the shadows.

Sansa welcomed the hurt again and realized that it was the hurt that made her feel alive; and she had to _live_ for those who were lost, she had to persevere for those who were sacrificed.

She hated the injury and distress in her heart, but the possibility of becoming like the man who married her was more than enough to sustain the emotional wounds and concede that _those _scars would always serve as reminders, but _never_ define her.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She slowly made her way to their apartments in the later hours of the afternoon.

Every step she took felt wooden; it matched the way she felt inside.

When she walked through the doors of the sitting room she could see Tywin in his place behind his desk and Lyol pouring wine. The scene was nothing unusual, save the hour in which it was taking place - Tywin not normally returning until supper.

She considered whether he was waiting for her, for her benefit, then realized it didn't matter. She didn't care about his motive, or the fact that he was there at all.

But when he lifted his eyes to her, as if to study her, his face impassive and stern, she was taken in a wave of absurdity - of _him_, of _her_, of _everything_, and it snapped every scrap of wood inside her.

She was broken.

_...Robb Stark, dead..._

_...Catelyn Stark, dead..._

All the grief and tears she thought had been orphaned and lost since reading those atrocious words had only been dammed behind now collapsed walls.

The pent up emotion was flooding her; overwhelming every corner of her.

He watched her shatter in front of his eyes and was utterly powerless to stop it, or to ease it, or to do anything but bear witness to it; and because of that, he felt part of himself crumble with her.

Her world bent and she felt herself falling. She had been looking at her husband when the plummet began, and she could see him rising to his feet as she was sinking beneath him.

But everything was slow and warping.

Tywin looked like he was running but his speed was nothing like a man set to rush - then she realized that her descent was just as listless.

Her vision angled down as her knees came to a painful halt, and she surmised she had finally hit the floor.

No sooner had she accepted the jarring fall than she was rising up again.

A warm hand was at the back of her knees and another one was hooked around her back. She was pressed against warmth that smelled familiar and safe.

Safe.

_...Robb Stark, dead..._

_...Catelyn Stark, dead..._

She was _safe_ and her family were dead. _All of them_.

They left her all alone in a place that only wanted to see her subjected to pain and suffering and now she had _nothing_ outside of it.

Tywin felt her hands dig into his clothing where he cradled her to his chest; her grip was impossibly tight, like she was anchoring him, or herself, against any possibility of vanishing.

He was mere strides from their bedchamber when she pulled even harder into him and began to wail.

The roar of sorrow was made even more heartbreaking by the fact that it came from _this_ girl. _His_ girl. _His wife_.

He could feel each sob build and shiver through her.

Her keening wracked her with such a physical force, Tywin had to hold on harder than he intended just to ensure she wouldn't quake out of his grasp.

But _Gods_, it was the sound she made. It punched him in the chest every time it rocked and shuddered out of her.

It was pure mourning; he knew exactly what kind of misery that was, just as he knew that there wasn't a _fucking thing_ he could do for her; and _that_ stabbed him with its own horrible agony.

She was coughing and choking on waves and torrents of tears and mucus, nothing was in her control. Her muscles tensed and cramped and all she could do was bewail her grief into the space around her.

The arms that carried her, set her on something soft. Her bed she supposed, but the excruciating sadness wouldn't allow her to confirm anything except loss.

She heard bits and pieces of Tywins' voice from somewhere faraway summoning a maester, then Kevan, then her sobs grew larger again and were in the way; and after a few moments, she felt large warm circles being rubbed into her back.

Her grief had made her muscles taut, so much so, that even her where her gown touched her it hurt, even soft contact felt as though it was made of steel and was crashing into her.

All the pain mingled together and she just curled into herself and kept crying.

She felt something brushing her face, a hand, a cloth, she couldn't tell. Then she heard her name, but it sounded like everything was underwater.

There was a coolness at the back of her neck, and her name was still floating calmly in front of her.

It took everything she could scrape together inside her just to open her eyes.

When her vision cleared, Tywin came into focus.

They were in their bedchamber, and they were alone - a small mercy in a riot of tragedy.

He was holding the back of her neck, propping her up, and bringing a cup to her mouth.

_...Robb Stark, dead..._

_...Catelyn Stark, dead..._

She pursed her lips and tried to back away from it.

Tywin knew exactly where her thoughts were leading her; he let go of her and stepped back.

"It's not poison Sansa, it is a draught to help you sleep."

His voice was impossibly kind and it made her even more suspicious. Her body acted on its own and scurried farther across the bed.

Sansas' breathing started to falter and her tears started again, she crumpled in a heap and wept anew.

This time there was an element of fear in the look on her face and Tywin forced himself past the anger her childishness sparked in him and came to the only conclusion presented.

She barely noticed him leave, but in the hiccups of her sadness she could hear talking through the open door. She recognised Ser Kevan and Tywin, there was also another man, but she couldn't place him before her mind rounded back on her grief.

When he returned, Sansa was where he'd left her, but she was whimpering.

His wife was no longer the strong young woman he'd watched grow for months and months; she was once again the terrified girl, a captive, this time to sorrow, now pining for her mother.

But hers was such a sad piteous voice, it pulled and tugged at him violently; he had to make a conscious effort to breath normally.

He had been holding a carafe and two cups, which he set down on the small table in the room.

Sansa watched every move he made, her eyes darting from behind her tears, her gulping, stuttered breathing slowing down as she had something else to occupy her attention.

He undid the fastenings on his doublet then walked to the side of the bed that she was closer to and held out his arm.

After a moment he shook his hand and spoke softly, "I cannot remove it without help."

She was still sniffling, but she leaned over and complied; taking hold of the cuff of his sleeve while he pulled his arm out, and repeated the action with the other.

He stripped completely and changed into a bedgown; and again approached where she was curled up.

"Come here Sansa," he waved his fingers to emphasize his request.

She still held her suspicion, but thought tiredly that he could easily rid the world of the last Stark _without _dressing for bed.

Crawling closer, he caught her midway and lifted her to her knees in front of him.

His jaw was working, but she was in no mood - so she rested her forehead against his chest, the air still hitching as she breathed, and waited for him to decide what he wanted.

She didn't wait long.

Tywin moved his fingers ably to loosen the lacing of the restrictive bodice of her gown, then leaned down and wrapped his arms around her waist - he picked her up, set her on her feet, and continued to remove her dress.

Sansa was in too much pain on the inside to concern herself with what happened on the outside. She considered that perhaps he wanted to take his rights as a husband, and found she did not care.

Instead she watched through wet eyes as he covered her eventual nakedness with her own bedgown; and before she could think of anything else, Tywin moved away from her toward the small table. There she observed him pour liquid into each cup before picking them both up and walking back to her.

He drank the entire contents of one cup and held out the other.

"It is _not_ poison."

She picked up the edge of annoyance in his voice.

His wife took the offered drink and consumed it all; and Tywin didn't know whether he felt foolish, that he had to resort to such measures; or uneasy, that she trusted such a display of foolishness.

No matter.

The lion pulled back the bed coverings and silently implored his wife to take the invitation.

After she had climbed in and curled into herself facing away from him, Tywin retrieved the damp cloth before joining her.

He moved closer to Sansa, then felt a pang of hesitation - he hadn't considered what he would do if she rejected his effort to comfort her.

_Sleep_, his mind concluded dryly.

Cautiously, he slid his arm under her head and slid the rest of him against her back.

She felt him move in close to her but she was in no state to even consider a fight, not that she wanted to fight anyway.

There _was _comfort in him; in his presence, and at least it was contrasting the hurt.

Sansa could feel Tywins' fingers moving her hair to the side, pulling a little too hard sometimes and plucking strands - her body barely acknowledged it. But when he placed the cold damp cloth at the back of her neck again she sighed at the relief.

It extinguished the heat that pooled in her head from crying.

His arm came to rest around her middle.

"How did you know to do that?" She didn't have to see his face to know he was frowning at her unclear question, "The cloth."

Her voice was graveled, but also that of a small child, and she was speaking more into the bed linen than anything; she just didn't have the want or power for more.

She felt his muscles stiffen where he was leaning against her, "My wi-," he shifted slightly and tried again, "My first wife-"

"Lady Joanna," Sansa muttered absently.

"Yes, Lady Joanna." Tywin cleared his throat a little before speaking further, "Shortly after we were married, her father died. The abruptness of his death caused her to mourn terribly."

"I wasn't allowed to mourn the death of my father."

It wasn't swung as a weapon, even in her sad-child voice he knew it was simply a factual statement.

He held her a little tighter before speaking.

"The deaths you hear about are the ones that fade easier. They never go away entirely, but time interrupts and creates gaps between the grief at a faster pace."

He paused for a moment and Sansa could feel his breath quicken as he spoke again.

"But when you are there to witness the death of someone you," his throat involuntarily clenched, "care for," he took a moment, "It stays with you as fresh and dreadful as if it were _that_ day, for the rest of your days."

There was another pause, "Perhaps there is a reason the Gods choose to brand those events at the front of the mind..."

She knew Tywin was no longer talking directly to her.

Sansa was no stranger to that particular torment; they shared a bed, and there was nothing sacred between people when sleep removed command of ones mind. There just wasn't. Her father haunted her dreams as much as Lady Joanna haunted his; but the pain of their memory was now halved.

She reached out and put her hand in his, where it was resting just past her head. Her fingers wriggled into their place between his.

Tywin would hold her hand like that when he could sense her stress - publicly or privately - and it was an action that always lent itself to calm.

When Tywin curled his fingers over her hand, the effect was immediate, for each of them.

She heard his breath let out behind her, then felt his mouth rest on the back of her head. He was doing no more than breathing her scent and nuzzling his lips and nose into her hair, creating a peaceful lull.

"Sleep love." He sounded as though he were already dreaming and, like their ghosts, his words were unfiltered and uncontrolled.

Her mind was able to sidestep the dolour that was threatening, and follow the path of comfort until she found her own dreams.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The next time her eyes opened, Sansa found herself staring at dancing shadows cast on the walls by the fire in the hearth.

She was still curled up on her side; her body ached and her head beat in a shallow but persistent thud. She could tell that her husband was no longer curled up with her, she couldn't feel him at all.

The cold cloth she remembered Tywin placing on the back of her neck earlier was tepid now, but served to dull the thud, regardless.

Her eyes were sore, her throat was raw, the place behind her cheeks burned and ached; and when her mind focused on Robb and her mother, the only thing she could offer were the thick tears that rolled down her face and the heavy air she pushed out of her lungs.

Sansa then felt warm knuckles rub circles into the rise of her hip.

There was nothing left in her to even acknowledge Tywin, his touch, or _anything_. Her mind was just so tired.

But she was cold. The fire would have heated the room sufficiently, but her bones were icy. It came from within, like a damp cold that had seeped to her core.

Slowly, she turned over.

The first thing she noticed was that Tywin was further away than his touch suggested. He was laying on his back with the arm furthest from her tucked behind his head. She also noted that the fire illuminated the top ridge of his profile in a way that made him look as though he was built of flames.

He looked warm.

When she moved again, he turned his head toward her. He didn't say a word, he simply watched until she was close enough to discern what she wanted, then lifted his arm in order to give it to her.

Sansa curled herself into the side of her husband, facing him, her knees were tucked up against his side, the arm under her and most of her torso laid on his belly. She felt his large hand come to rest on the edge of her hip and lower back.

He _was _warm, and it was enough to start to settle her agitation - but it wasn't enough to ebb the fathomless tears that were still streaming down her face.

Tywin was looking at her, there was no emotion easily read on him; her blurry eyes weren't of any assistance either, but she could feel him. His fingers pressed a light rhythm into her back as his thumb traced an invisible pattern into her hip.

She laid her head down on the softness of his bedgown and the warmth of him underneath it, and closed her eyes.

"You're glad of it, aren't you?" Her question came in the form of a corroded voice.

Tywin was teetering on the cusp of sleep himself when her words drew him back.

His eyes struggled open and focused on the girl that was partially draped over him; that had again raised her head and was looking up at him through red, swollen eyes.

He blinked slow as he considered his words, and tightened his fingers but a fraction where they rested on her hip.

Tywin would not lie to her, but neither would he add to her torment, so he bit back his annoyance at her vague question.

"If you are asking me if I wanted your brother dead;" he paused only momentarily in order to gage her willingness for the truth, "yes, you know that I did."

Other than taking a deeper breath and her tears still falling, Sansa displayed no outward signs of struggle.

"If you are asking if your brothers death will mean quicker gain and profit; yes, it will."

Where her hand was resting idly on his stomach, he could feel her fingers curl, biting through the fabric into skin.

"If you are asking," he took a slow breath in, moved his hand from behind his head to rest on the crown of her hair; he began stroking his thumb over and through the softness there, "if your brothers death makes me _happy_," he frowned a tiny amount, his brows pulled down lower, and looked at her with the serious eyes she knew to mean that he was troubled, "_no_, it doesn't."

It was barely a whisper and sounded more like a lullaby.

Sansa laid her head down again and tried to concentrate on the rhythm of her husbands' breathing and the strokes of his fingers in her hair; but, in the end, it was only after the drain and effort of her next wave of sorrow that she was able to find sleep.

To find some peace.


	4. ressed

***Note:** This chapter contains descriptions of violence and abuse. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.*

***Note:** This chapter is 12,000+ words. Please ensure you've allotted enough time to read it, secured your favourite beverage, and have gone pee prior to starting.*

* * *

A little over four moons had passed since the Red Wedding occurred.

It was a foul title for a foul event and one that made Sansa's blood run cold every time she heard it. Tywin never mentioned it to her, he would talk about it only if she presented the conversation, but took noticeable pains, otherwise, to have it removed from their day-to-day life.

He had told her she was to avoid court, and Joffrey without exception - and the few times the King had summoned her, or them, for whatever reason, Tywin put an end to it promptly.

But that was over four moons past and she was noticing disparaging looks and stares when she would walk about the castle or the grounds.

Not that she particularly cared about what people thought of _her_, bias and contempt were nothing new, it was now her growing regard for what, and how, they viewed her husband. More so, how they viewed him in relation to her; she didn't want to be a weakness, _his _weakness, present or considered.

So she made the effort and attended court.

It didn't take more than a few minutes for Joffrey to notice her arrival, and immediately the business of the realm steered to that of the dead wolf-king and the other skinchangers from every part of the sinister North.

Tywin was sat to the side of the King, his face was calm but his eyes were furious - she could tell in his angled posture that his fury was aimed well away from her.

For every badly-veiled taunt that failed to find a foothold in her humiliation or embarrassment, Joffrey became angrier.

It was when his face was reddened from screaming and he was all but spitting his words directly at her, that he called her forward by name.

"Lady Sansa," his pitch broke, causing him to squeak out her title loudly.

No one in attendance dared to even snicker.

She approached at a calm pace and with a demeanour that made her nothing less than glorious; she came to a stop at a position in front of the dais that had seen more than its share of her blood.

She curtsied perfectly and spoke with the appropriate reverence, "Your Grace."

"And what do _you_ think of the slaughter of your brother and the rest of the northern criminals?" He was visibly shaking in his anger.

"My brother was a traitor Your Grace, he died as he deserved." It was a familiar cadence with familiar words; it was a mask she donned as though it were an old friend.

The King wasn't finished, not even close, "My grandfather thinks I shouldn't bring you his traitor head. Would you like that? To see another Stark? It would be a family gathering, you and the remains of your father and brother - all about as useful as Starks normally are." He laughed at her, cruel and degrading.

She didn't budge. She didn't cry or even bristle at his words - it was as if she was made of metal.

"I am a Lannister Your Grace, by law and in the eyes of the Gods." She smiled, genuine and sweet. A smile fit for a queen.

She watched Tywin blink slowly, emphasizing the close more than the open; it was a gesture that reminded her of the Hound when he would pinch her to prevent her from saying something stupid, from being punished further.

Her insides went cold, her outside showed no signs of distress.

The King stood then, making his way down the grand steps, stopping right in front of her.

His voice was calm, nonchalant, "You should bleed gold then, should you not?"

Joffrey didn't give her time to even consider an answer, "Ser Loras, Ser Osmund, secure my grandmother."

The two Kingsguard approached without hesitation, each gripping one of Sansa arms.

She let it happen, she did not fight, she knew this part as though it were a game from her childhood.

However, her exceedingly calm disposition was new, and it was _that _which enraged the King.

There was no noise in the great chamber, no voices aflutter with gossip or anticipation of carnage, the quiet was deathly.

Joffrey stepped in closer to her and spoke loud enough for this words to travel, "If I remove your head, not only will it prove you are _not _a Lannister, but I will have carried on the tradition of my grandfather and ended the line of a troublesome house." He looked around, pleased as the courtiers nervously muttered their approval.

She took the opportunity and looked up at the dias; Tywin was now standing, everyone was now standing she noted, he was outwardly furious in that he was flexing his right hand. She noticed the subtle sway in this right arm, the one that was practiced for decades, the one that would unleash his sword.

For a moment she wondered exactly who he would choose, but thought, in the very same moment, that it didn't matter. Either way she would be dead.

Sansa returned her focus to the sad, bitter boy standing in front of her.

"What do you think of that, grandmother? Would you like to die for the sake of the rest of us knowing?"

Her words were again calm, and spoken without hesitation, "It is not my place to question the will of the realm, My King."

She could _feel _the hate cascading off him.

"Very well," he hissed.

No sooner had the words left his mouth, there was a cacophony of steel being bared.

Using her peripheral, Sansa could see that Tywin had his sword drawn and was at the midpoint of stairs on the dais, but was held at bay by three Kingsguard. He was emotionless and it seemed to make him fiercer.

She could also discern that every Gold Cloak and Lannister soldier had pulled their blades as well.

_This will be a bloodbath_, she thought.

She brought her eyes back to the green set seething in front of her.

Sansa was no longer fragile and there was nothing King Joffrey could do to her, physically or emotionally, that would see her break.

Tywin may have been a reprieve at the beginning, by way of their marriage, but at the end of the day The Lion of Lannister was only but a subject to the King, and it was Sansas own resolve that consolidated her will and inner strength.

The King had nothing left to remove or threaten her with; nothing she would _allow _him to have. Her life was her own and if the King chose to take _that _away she knew, looking again at her husband, that she would be avenged - not by the family she once had, but by the one she worked hard to create from nothing.

Joffrey was bested, and he knew it, and he utterly despised her for it.

"You _will _see your traitor brother again, but it will be in _this _life, not the next."

The King flicked his hand at the two knights that held her, and she was just as quickly let go.

She extended the courtesy that was expected when spared by a king, "Thank you, Your Grace."

As she turned to take her place amongst the crowd in the room, _her life may have been spared but her attendance wasn't dismissed_, she looked to see Tywin. He was still standing on the steps, his sword replaced at his hip, and was carefully watching her with a heavy stare.

His wife smiled at him. It was nothing smug or triumphant, he could see that she was humble and her smile was meant to speak to him alone. Meant to assure him she was alright.

He gave a curt nod in return and watched until she found a place in the audience.

At the first break in proceedings, Tywin walked directly to his wife and offered his arm. He didn't speak a word, he just lead her out of court and down the hall leading to the outer gardens.

Before they reached the massive archway that would usher them outside, Tywin turned abruptly and opened a narrow door. The room inside was small, it had tools and implements she supposed were for tending the greenery just without.

He turned her to face him and barely brushed his palms down her arms where she was held.

"Are you injured?" His tone was as serious as his look.

Sansa answered gently and truthfully, "I am bruised my lord, but I am not injured."

His wife wore her hair up and he couldn't stop himself from placing his fingers around the base of her skull and pulling her toward him. He rested his lips on her hairline and spoke in his usual serious tone, "You are a beautiful fool."

She smiled to herself at his backhanded sentimentality, but at the same time her proximity allowed her to feel his heartbeat, it was rapid and completely belied his exterior.

Sansa pulled away from him slightly, looking up as she did so; Tywins face and tone were stern, but his eyes held something else entirely.

"_Don't_ do that again."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

As they met for supper, there was no mention of what happened in court. Such was their way; if there was no immediate need or consequence, Tywin had no interest.

They had barely begun their meal before it was interrupted by the announcement of a messenger.

Sansa looked to her husband, seeing if he would dismiss her for privacy or himself leave for the same reason. He did neither as he waved the young man in.

He bowed, "My lord, the Freys have advanced but seem more disorganized without the Bolton forces." It was precise and matter of fact, exactly what his lord expected.

"Is there _any _progress being made, aside from the idiot family understanding how to walk forward and close a gap?" Tywin said it without a trace of humour.

The young soldier paused then, quickly glanced at Sansa, and cleared his throat, "They have taken to parading Lord Edmure to the gallows every day with the threat of execution, my lord."

Tywin didn't look at her directly, but could see clearly she remained unmoved by the information, her only tell was the clench of her jaw, but even that was delicate.

He focused on the young man again, "And what of the Blackfish?"

"He refuses to treat, my lord. He is holding with limited armament, men, and with those who successfully fled the Red We-" The young man stopped completely, looked at his lady for but a heartbeat, then back to his lord.

Again Tywin observed his wife's strength.

The messenger was given his leave with a short wave of his lords hand.

Tywin waited for it; and wasn't disappointed when Sansa spoke her question.

"Are Lannister forces aiding the Freys in their siege of Riverrun, my lord?" Her tone was cool, there was no desperation or easily identifiable panic.

He looked at her for only a moment, then opened a missive that was sitting to the side, "No."

Tywin, again, waited.

Sansa thought for a moment, knowing her husband wouldn't entertain question after question, she would have to ensure their significance.

"_Why_ are Lannister forces, and I assume they are a formidable number, observing the siege of Riverrun?"

He smirked, that was the question he wanted from her.

"War leads to opportunity, and if the Freys manage to create one that will allow me to take Riverrun, I will."

"But why are Lannister forces at Riverrun to begin with?" she was genuinely curious.

"When I removed my support, and the support of the crown, I had expected the Freys to regroup with the North," he angled his head slightly, "and Riverrun was the better choice, both strategically - less chance of having to strike from a defensive position or being besieged, and the gain - which, as a whole, is superior."

He took a drink and narrowed his eyes - not necessarily at her, more at his own thoughts, "But there is no accounting for the bitter pettiness of some men. It leads to unpredictability."

Sansa slightly raised her eyebrows at Tywins assessment of Lord Frey, and wondered if he could read her silent accusation toward his hypocritical judgment. The way he paused and narrowed his eyes told her that he did, but he did not address it.

"The northern position was doomed regardless, the Freys simply enabled a sooner fruition." He looked down after that, now uninterested in their conversation, reading the parchment opened on the table beside him.

Sansa couldn't understand why her husband was suddenly ignorantly dismissive.

"The North will regroup and follow any heir Robb may have. His queen lives." It wasn't said to incite, it was a fact.

"Your brother did not sire an heir." He brushed her off, never raising his eyes, as he would an annoyance seeking his favour.

Again, she didn't know why he was being dismissive.

"You don't know that," she was exasperated, "You don't _know _he would have died, you don't _know _if his queen isn't with child," she was losing her patience, "Don't say that you do."

He flicked his eyes at her then.

Sansa set her cutlery down and looked at Tywin directly. She spoke recklessly, not out of anger but out of exhaustion, "You're a great man, but that does _not _make you a God."

Her annoyance found a voice, and she could not take it back.

She watched her husband set down his own cutlery, and for a moment she thought he would stand and leave. Instead he remained seated and looked at her with a smugness that yanked her back, what felt like, decades; it was the same look Joffrey would give her as she was being struck and punished.

Her appetite was gone and her muscles were covertly coiling.

Lord Tywin made no move to harm her physically, but he spoke in a tone that would damage.

"Sansa, your brother would have died regardless; more than likely by _my _doing. He was young and _incredibly_ stupid."

He looked at her pointedly to ensure he had her attention, "I will admit he had moments of luck and brilliance on the battlefield, but how much of that was his own ingenuity and how much was he lead by the men who made him their king?"

Her response was quiet, "My lord, you don't know-"

She wasn't listening, she wasn't even trying to comprehend and Tywin was at the end of his patience. He slammed his fist down on the heavy wooden table with such a force, he caused the jump and fall of food and serviceware alike.

He stood then, leaning over to his wife, his eyes were livid and his words were fired like arrows, "He wed a girl from the _Westerlands_." He was almost frothing, "Who do you think that girls parents served - their _liege lord_ or a false northern king who couldn't keep his cock out of their daughter?"

She hated this version of him; and _this_ man, she was sure, hated her too, "_Y-You_. My lord, _you_." She just wanted it to be over.

Tywin took a deep breath; reeling himself in from the edge, his tone was calmer, "_That's_ how I know your brother will have no heir. _That's_ how I know he was at an end, whether he realized it or not."

He turned to leave then, his meal and work abandoned.

He stopped when he reach the door and growled to her without turning around.

"Your mother lives," he pushed the door open, "I have secured her from the Freys," he began walking away, "She will be here in a fortnight," and he was gone.

She looked at her hands, where they were resting on the table, they were shaking.

She looked at the parchment by her husband's plate.

_Mother_.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

True to her husband's word, her mother took a fortnight to finally arrive in Kings Landing.

She reached the Red Keep before the sun was up, and was brought in without ceremony. She was given accommodation and help as befitting her station, and as far as the soldiers that accompanied her from The Twins were aware, she had yet to speak a word.

When Tywin woke he found that Sansa was awake too. Something she was never apt to do, unless previously planned.

At some point in the night she had curled and hugged herself around his closest arm, and he could feel her shivering - like she would if she were fevered.

He felt a pang of panic and turned toward as much as he could. He raised a hand and ran it over her forehead, and continued through her hair.

Her skin wasn't burning, she wasn't damp in sweat, but her muscles were working in waves of tiny spasms.

He frowned at her, and she could see it clearly even in the dim light of their bed chamber.

"It's been so long."

She said it into his arm more than _at_ him, but he heard her and he knew what she was referring too.

Tywin had been woken at an early hour to be told of Lady Catelyn arrival and thought best to allow both her and his wife time to rest. But now that she was awake, he knew Sansa would make that her only priority.

"She will always be your mother, regardless of the time between you."

The corner of his mouth twitched when she nodded into his sleeve.

In any other setting Tywin would loathe and admonish the sort of childishness his wife was displaying. But the small doses she exhibited privately only added to her appeal.

"If you care to postpone your meeting until later this morning, I will accompany you."

When she politely declined his offer, she had no idea how proud he was of her.

Tywin moved and carefully disentangled himself, rose fully and summoned for both of them to be attended.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She approached the room that held her mother with equal parts hesitation and excitement.

Tywin had told her she would be wise not to expect the same woman she had left in Winterfell - that war changes everyone.

Sansa knew this fact intimately.

He had also been informed that her mother was suffering injury, but had yet to see or speak to her himself and couldn't prepare her for what kind of wounds she may have.

It didn't matter. Sansa would work to make her mother well, regardless of her injury, the only thing that mattered was that she was alive and _here_.

When she arrived at the door, one of the two Lannister guards immediately stepped aside as the other opened the door and escorted her inside.

The small sitting room was empty, save for the maid tending the fire.

Sansa inquired of the maid as to the whereabouts of her mother before politely dismissing her.

The guard remained at her side as they entered the attached bedchamber.

The room was bright enough, and would only get brighter throughout the day - Sansa smiled at that small comfort.

Her mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, stock still and silent.

Sansa could see that she was awake, she could also see, quite clearly, the terrible gashes and lesions running down her mother's face and neck. She inhaled quickly, loudly, but it didn't seem to disturb her mother's concentration.

The other change in the physical appearance of Lady Catelyn was that her Tully hair, the beautiful auburn she shared with her daughter, was now streaked in brittle swatches of white. There was no pattern or distinguished flow to the white, it simply appeared in patches.

_Oh mother, what have they done to you? _Sansa's mind was reeling in the despair her body refused to cry out.

Continuing to observe, Sansa quickly noticed that her mother's wrists had been bound. What made it worse was that she had been bathed and clothed in the one of the gowns personally selected for her, then had her bindings reapplied.

Her mother was no longer a prisoner, no longer in the hands of the enemy. She was with family and, however unconventional the circumstance may be, they were together and that's all that mattered.

"Why is she bound, ser?" Sansa was edging on anger, "Untie her at once, she'll not harm me."

The guard looked at her rather sheepishly and hesitated before answering, "My lady," his voice was at a whisper, "Your mother is restrained for her _own_ safety."

Sansa frowned at the man, her frustration now plainly read on her face.

The guard continued, he could see that his explanation was insufficient, "The... wounds on her face... My lady, she inflicted those _herself_. The bloody Freys just let her, but Lord Tywin would never approve of us allowing her continue... So we tied her and found a healer."

Her mother hadn't moved a fraction, not even to lay eyes on her daughter. She just sat there, staring blankly, clean but slightly tousled, and obviously hurting.

"Untie her please." It was said with the kindness she was known for, but it also sounded tired.

The guard did as he was bid and Lady Catelyn still didn't move, didn't look at Sansa.

When the man left, Sansa pulled a chair close to where her mother was sitting on the edge of her bed.

"Mother?" She said it gently, not wanting to startle or provoke her.

The wounds on her face and neck were gruesome, long deep cuts, and for her mother to have inflicted them on herself only spoke to the horror she was witness to.

But her mother remained silent and seemingly despondent.

Sansa was patient if anything; she settled into her own thoughts and waited. Her mother was right in front of her and she would gladly wait for her to find her way back.

"Your blood should have been at my feet too." Her voice was as shredded as the flesh on her face and neck. "It would have been better that way."

Sansa was surprised by the dreadful words, they had been sitting in silence for hours, but jumped at the opportunity to finally talk to her beloved mother.

"Mother, I-"

But Lady Catelyn barreled over her daughter as though she wasn't in the room, let alone addressing her.

"Bolton. I thought it was Lord Bolton who ended Robb's life, but when they..." her voice became airy and her words drifted for a moment, almost thoughtfully, "They didn't even have the decency to use a broad sword. Did you know that?"

Lady Catelyn looked directly at her daughter but her eyes didn't acknowledge her, she just kept talking, "Raymund Frey, he used a dagger... with a blade no longer than the width of my hand." Her eyes drifted again, looking at her hands, "It took so long, sawing with that tiny blade; he was still bleeding, he was still gurgling. I screamed for them to stop, but they just held me down and made me watch." Her face was serene, like she was speaking of nothing more than household assignments, "Even when they twisted and twisted, his body was trying to breath. They had to get an axe to finish it. He was quiet after that."

Sansa felt her hands getting clammy. She was aghast. She didn't want to hear _any _of this, but she couldn't find the command that would make her mouth, or even her legs, work.

Her mother looked right at her then, "You've been sullied, you know. By _him_."

She didn't know why, but she felt defensive; she found her words and spoke them softly, respectfully, "I have been treated fairly, Lord Tywin has been kind."

Lady Catelyn smiled, but it looked more like she was in pain.

Sansa tried to gently change the subject, "I wrote you-"

Her mother became vicious, "Letters from the Westerlands addressed to the woman that freed the Kingslayer, _I know_."

Sansa clenched her jaw in hurt and frustration, she didn't know what she meant about Ser Jaime; it was as though her mother had built a curtain wall out of iron and all she had were her bare hands to conquer it.

Again Sansa spoke softly, "You are not a prisoner mother, you will never see a cell again, I promise-"

"A _cell_?" Catelyn looked at Sansa as though the young lady had sprouted another head, then sneered her words, "Is _that _where you think I've been kept?"

She laughed then and it was nothing like Sansa remembered, nothing of the mother that used to brush her hair at night, "No, I was a _prize_ and was claimed as such."

Sansa knew she didn't want to hear any more, "I don't-"

But the woman talked right through her.

"No," her eyes were wild, "I still had your brothers blood in my mouth when they cut the clothes from me, lashed me to the end of a table and took their turns. Boltons _and_ Freys." She then had a faraway look with a voice that matched "I was there for days."

"I was fed, at least." There was a twitch in the lower lid of her mother's right eye, it was subtle and frightening all at once, "They delighted, after a sennight, to tell me I had been eating Grey Wind_._" She closed her eyes then, smiled awkwardly, and momentarily sounded like the mother from Sansa's dreams, "Your brothers wolf, you remember him don't you?"

_I remember them both_, her mind said, but her mouth didn't allow.

Her mother then snapped her eyes open, the sunken orbs were bloodshot and it made the blue radiate a purple. I was like she was looking through the hottest part of a fire.

"I begged them to kill me after the first fortnight, instead they pissed on me and threatened to kill my brother if I did the deed myself."

"The only mercy I had was after three moons when the wretched spawn they had forced into me dripped out and _most_ kept their distance."

She looked her daughter in the eye and spoke sweetly, "Then I was _sold_."

Sansa reached out for her, she couldn't help it, she was horrified but her mother was in pain and she wanted to help her, comfort her, _anything_.

Lady Catelyn wanted nothing of it, she recoiled from her daughters hands as though they were the same ones that held her down.

"I- Mother... please..."

"Do you think you can have me too, _Lannister_? I belong to _no one_!" The woman bellowed at her, at the same time her anger contorted and tore the scabs and scars on her face and neck into something even more grotesque.

"Do you think the North will want you now? You're no _Stark_! You dishonour them, all of them, all of those who died because of _you_!"

Sansa stood up with a force that toppled her chair, _How did she know?_, she was backing away and talking, trying to make her understand, but her voice was no more than a whisper, "I... I have done my duty..."

"To_ whom_?" The older woman sat up straighter and narrowed her eyes, "You say you've done your duty, yet Tywin Lannister still breathes. You let that man slither inside you and flaunt his payment besides." The woman was focused on Sansa's necklace as she curled her lip in disgust, "Even a _common_ whore would have the decency to die for the right amount of coin."

Sansa was winded, it was as though she was being struck by gauntlets._ Again_.

"His first wife died birthing the abomination he had fucked on her, I can only hope the same for you and yours."

Her steps backward had finally brought her in contact with the wall, she used it to guide her to the door.

The scarred woman followed her every move with her burning eyes, and Sansa wanted nothing more than to put as much distance between this repulsive stranger and herself.

At the same moment Sansa knocked to signal the guard, the woman dropped her rancour and became serious, "I don't care what you do to me, _I will kill them all_."

The door opened and Sansa slipped into the hall with so much momentum her personal guard had to catch her before she tripped and fell.

The three men were left staring, blinking blankly at Sansa. The door was thick and the sound didn't penetrate, they had no idea what was said beyond it.

She stood straight, gathered her bearings and spoke as she always did, pleasantly and confident, "Please ensure Lady Stark is tended to by the maester." She brushed her hands down her skirts and continued, "Have her maids ensure that if she is served meat, that it is identifiable."

The request was odd, but the sentries didn't question it or even raise a brow.

Lady Sansa turned and made her way up to the battlements. The familiar freedom from the cage she had kept for so long. There _was _freedom up there, a kind of peace. And with every rounded corner there was a part of her that expected the drunken terror of the Hound to block her path, and felt a strange kind of disappointment when it didn't happen.

However, those were thoughts and expectations from a time before. Before she had a husband. When only her father was dead. When she still had the dream of seeing the rest of her family.

There were no alternatives now, there was no hope for reunion or reconciliation. She was truly without the family she was born to, raised amongst, nurtured in, and loved by.

But she was not alone.

No, she was the companion, advisor, lover, and wife of a man who, if she had never been in Kings Landing to begin with, would have more than likely been the same man that saw to her death in one fashion or another.

But she was _not_ alone.

Sometimes it was enough. Sometimes it ate through the loneliness. Sometimes it was empowering. Mostly she could see the further conclusions, the ones that stemmed from the man but ended where _she _desired.

Tywin was right, war changes everyone. And just as much as the woman she met was no longer her mother, Sansa had come to the crashing realization that she was not longer the daughter Catelyn Tully knew either.

She _was _a Stark, no amount of raving would remove that part of her, but she wasn't the girl who left Winterfell.

She was more.

Her most powerful weapon was her heart. She would baulk at Tyrion for his telling her so, believing it more of a weakness; but, as she looked out over the city that had tried so hard to murder that part of her, she knew he spoke at least _some _truth.

It would never break completely, but with enough emotional pain the damage could be crippling - and there always seemed to be a barrage of it.

She knew the relief she wanted, _needed_, to help with that particular pain, and she would no longer be ashamed _to _want it.

It was hers to have, she only had to take it.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

His solar in their apartments a was smaller than the sitting room, but because it was not openly accessed, it offered far more privacy.

Tywin had instructed Sansa to meet with him there after her visit with her mother. He wanted to know essential details, he also didn't want to interrogate her when she was still emotionally vulnerable. Privacy was determined the safest environment for her debriefing, and if she didn't seem responsive, he would wait until they were readying for bed.

She found him sitting on the small sofa in the room, instead of at the desk; from what she could determine, the fire provided a better light for reading and looked a more comfortable seat.

When he heard her enter and close the door behind her, he chanced a glance up and was pleased to see a look of contentment on her face. She wasn't carrying any unnecessary stress as far as he could tell.

He went back to the missive he was reading and as she walked to a place beside him, beside the arm of the sofa, Tywin asked absently, "I presume your visit was satisfactory?"

He expected an answer, instead he felt her fingers caress his face - twine and fiddle through his side whiskers. He subconsciously let out his breath and leaned into her touch.

She knew he liked that, that he was malleable when she gave him that tender attention.

When he turned his head to look at her, his eyes almost bleary, she kept his gaze and rounded to a spot in front of his legs; once stopped, she leaned into him further and planted her lips over his.

Tywin groaned into her mouth when he felt her fingers curl around to the back of his neck and take hold of him. It was commanding and liberating all at the same time.

She had never taken control like that; it was bold and aggressive. Sansa had always been sophisticated and understated in her intimate advances; what she was instigating was almost hurried, it had an element of desperation.

Her approach notwithstanding, he was already hard; but he supposed that was what she wanted, that she wanted him compliant-

Sansa felt Tywins hands roam over her and it caused her breathing to deepen.

This is what she needed.

One of his hands snaked its way up and over her breasts, up the side of her neck, then down again to the collar of her gown. She could feel him hold her there, like he was looking to control her angle - which was exactly what she wanted, she wanted to be free, she wanted him to take her, pleasure her so she could be lost in it.

His hand was still tightening on her collar, but he wasn't maneuvering her.

She kissed him even harder as if to prompt and encourage him. But when his grip on her gown tightened, his fingers twisting the fabric so taut that it was tearing the stitching and taking skin with it - pinching and hurting - it was then that she realized his mouth was a solid line, that he wasn't kissing her back.

_Compliant_.

Sansa blinked in confusion, and when she saw the frightening fury simmering in his eyes she was instantly afraid. He had never thrown her a look so spiteful and she found herself combing her mind, trying to determine what particular action would see him so angry.

She simply couldn't find her deed, she couldn't understand why he was hurting her like that.

Tywin straightened his arm, pushing her back a couple of stumbling steps, but still held her gown in a vicious grip.

He felt a rage seep into him that was so violent, so malevolent, it unlocked his darkness and his mind flashed the image of him running her through, just to be rid of her. Rid of girl who proved him _a_ _fucking fool_.

But there was no cunning in her eyes, nothing of a game, just fear and confusion - and that only made him indignant.

"_Is this what your mother _advised_ you to do_?" He was snarling at her, he couldn't stop himself.

He shook the fist that held her, causing Sansa to keen out a whimper at the pain it produced.

"I- No, my lord-" She was all but pleading.

"Tell me _what_ she said! Tell me how she instructed you to _fuck_ for her freedom! _Tell me_!"

He was trembling in his rage; however, what he witnessed in his wife, the scared girl at the end of his cruelty, caused him to shiver for completely different reasons.

She became a ghost.

Her eyes became terrible in their emptiness, her skin greyed, her body slumped into his hand like dead weight, and when she spoke, her voice was distant and hollow.

But it was _what_ she said that would forever haunt him.

"My mother _told_ me that she would have rather seen my throat slit in front of her, dead like my brother, than have me married to you."

Her tone was droning, like ten thousand bees had suddenly infested the room.

"My mother _told_ me that if I had any love for the North, or for my father, or for my brothers, I would kill you then find the highest battlement, the tallest tower perhaps, and throw myself off."

His grip on her collar was the only thing holding her up.

"My mother _told_ me I was less than a common whore for sharing your bed."

He watched as Sansa's throat worked, as she seemed to focus on him once more, her voice had life again, but it was so broken.

"My mother _told_ me she wished death to any children I may bear you, and hoped I would befall a fate the same as Lady Joanna."

Tywin felt bile rising in his throat, his mind was rushing from fact to reference; he tried picturing his own mother speaking to Genna that way, of Joanna speaking to Cersei with such poison. He couldn't and it was making him furious.

He looked at his wife; there she was, sublime and shattered once more.

He cursed the Gods, all of them, old and new and foreign, as he slowly lowered her, her legs long since working to keep her upright. She came to rest on her knees between his feet, her arms draped over each of his knees - they were the only things preventing her from crumpling to the floor completely.

Tywin was swallowing hard, over and over again. He thought to give her peace by retrieving her mother, he had never imagined _this_. Never imagined he could be so wrong about Catelyn Tully.

He let her go, his fingers cramping from holding so tight for so long, but he kept his fingertips over where he knew he'd marked her.

"Sansa... I..."

He was at a loss. For everything.

"_I'm sorry_." It tasted as caustic, but not because he didn't mean the words.

He _was _sorry; because her mother gave her venom instead of love, because she was hurting _again_, because _he_ hurt her _again_.

Because he was _failing_ her. Because he was failing _himself _by doing so.

Beyond _who _this girl was, she was his _wife_. Beyond her name, her claim, and her womb, he pledged vows to her - in front of the Gods he _hated _but believed in nonetheless.

"_I'm... sorry..._"

He had no idea he was muttering until he felt her hand lightly squeeze his forearm and heard her speak.

He concentrated on the poor girl clinging to him; _still there_, _with him_. He wondered then if it wasn't the tenacious creature _herself_ that was preventing him from failing her entirely.

Tears welled in her eyes but didn't fall, "When does it end my lord?"

He tilted his head in question.

"The _suffering_. When will I stop _suffering_?" It was a harsh whisper, sounding of fury and sadness.

He found himself choking down a thick tightening in his throat and clenching his jaw in an effort to regain his determination.

Tywin leaned forward then, rested his elbows on his thighs and cupped her face in his palms. He ran his thumbs where the tears would have been if she'd allowed them.

"It doesn't end my lady." He knew it was brutal, but it was the truth, "There will always be suffering, in one capacity or another, waiting for you in this life." His features were stony and emotionless, but his touch on her was in complete contrast.

She closed her eyes in defeat, the pooled tears finally pushed out, sliding into the thumbs that were ready for them.

"Look at me Sansa." His throat was still tight and it made his voice gruff.

He marveled for a moment, as she opened her eyes, at the delicate tears clinging to her eyelashes - it was like rain on a spiders web, it was sorrowfully beautiful.

When he was confident she was focused on him again, he continued, "But there is always a choice. Whether you allow it to bury you, or whether you fight your way through it."

Tywin leaned in further and kissed her softly; pulling back from her he whispered sternly, "_What do you choose_?"

Sansa looked at her husband, first in blurry indecision, then with a steely resolution; she raised her hands and gripped his wrists hard, her voice was gritty but confident, "_Fight_," she squeezed his wrists harder, "I choose to _fight_."

Her husband's eyes narrowed, dissecting her sincerity, determining if she meant her words or if she was simply trying to appease him.

All he saw was the truth of _her_.

And when his wife sat taller on her knees and kissed him soundly, again, Tywin surrendered to her. He kissed her deeply, tasting the salty flavour of tears pronounced on her tongue; he devoured them for her, not wanting her to _ever_ taste them again.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, moved her mouth away from his and rested her head on her own shoulder.

Tywin could feel her hot breath on his cheek, and when her arms pulled tighter, he took his cue and wound his own around her back; holding her close, holding her up, just holding her.

"Make the pain go away, my lord, _please_. Just for a little while."

What a sad, pitiful thing it is to have to ask to be bedded in order to wash away the torment of what waits on the outskirts of accepted memory. But it was a sedative no different than drinking; something to numb the pain.

Tywin knew the trick was to alleviate the source of the pain before it could become troublesome, but what his wife had endured that day, and the more recent moons before it, was something that would fracture most men. The fact that Sansa had the wherewithal to trudge through the leagues of horror she had been subjected to, recently and before, more than earned what she asked of him; he would not question her.

He cinched his arms tighter around her back and stood with her as she was; arms wrapped about his neck, face buried in his cheek, feet dangling loose at his shins.

That was how he walked them both to their bedchamber, dismissing servants as he went with a glare or a flick of his fingers.

He laid her down on their bed and crawled to a position above her.

She reached between them and brushed her fingertips across the bulge in his breeches, where the laces were straining, and he swept them away with his - denying her.

"You will have it," Tywin set to kissing and sucking on her neck, speaking through his ministrations, "when I am done with you."

He stripped her slowly, uncomplicated her hair, made a point to kiss her through every reduced layer; her breasts, her collarbone, her hips, her center; allowing her to appreciate the gradually building sensations.

By the time he had her naked, Sansa was panting and visibly wet, and it ushered even more blood to his groin; prompting him to divest himself of clothing as fast as he was able.

Naked, he leaned down again, slid his hands behind her and lifted both of them until he was sitting on his heels and she was poised over his lap.

She looked at him. Just looked, then smiled a tiny amount.

Using the strength of her thighs, she raised herself a little higher, reached between them for the second time, and aligned his manhood with her entrance.

Sansa never took her eyes off her husband; and when she sank onto the full length of him, the air seemed to leave the room.

She rested her head on his shoulder as he manipulated her arse, lifting her up then setting her back down in long strokes. Every impale was met with a sigh-turned-moan and Tywin knew that _this _was what she had wanted all along.

Such simplicity; yet he tended to complicate it, despite all of his knowledge, despite all of his experience.

_A fucking fool, indeed._

After a several minutes, he could feel her hands gripping onto his back and he knew she was looking for release of a different kind.

Nuzzling his mouth beside her ear, Tywin gave a clear and concise instruction.

"_Fight_."

Sansa leaned away from him slightly, looking him in the face, her hips grinding, she used her hands and pushed him back a tiny amount - not enough for him to lose his balance.

He watched her lean into him again, her lips making contact with his neck. She was kissing and licking and nipping him in a way she knew he liked.

Tywin responded with a deep growl in the back of his throat.

She kissed down, over his collarbone, and concentrated her effort on one spot high on the muscle of his chest. Her attention was pleasant, thoughtful even, until she forcefully bit down in that same spot.

He was taken by surprise; gritting the pain through his teeth, forcing his hands to stay on her backside instead of shoving her away.

The pressure of her teeth intensified and when she ground her jaw slightly. He let out yelp, but he didn't stop her.

He wanted to fuck into her harder in retaliation, but found out, quite quickly, that the more violently he moved her, the more violently her teeth cut into his flesh.

She pulled away as fast as she bit down and looked at him with anger in her eyes.

Tywin gave the look right back, still guiding her to ride his cock; but when he glanced at her breasts, as beautiful as they were, his attention was drawn to the ugly blemish _his_ furious hand had marked her with.

Considering it further, he realized that Sansa had marked the same spot on his own body.

He twitched a grin at her; his wife was a clever one.

She returned his smile with one that cast an air of mischief, one that he would distrust on any other face save the one looking at him.

She moved in closer again, slid her arms under his until they rested on his back and proceeded to dig her nails into the skin and muscle there. Tywin sunk his face into the curve of her neck and tried to concentrate on the feel of her sheathing and unsheathing him, but the gouges were getting deep and there was only so much his ego would allow.

In a quick move, Tywin laid her back on the bed and pulled her hands from behind him; pinning each of them above her head with each of his, he lowered his mouth and kissed her hard.

"_Enough_," he growled onto her lips.

He swayed back once more, sitting on his heels, Sansas hips and waist laid arched down his thighs, her head and shoulders still on the bed.

The sight was sparking excitement in his senses; the line of her belly arched taut, the pronouncement of her ribs in that same arch, her breasts firm but moving with every breath and every thrust, her arms stretched out above her head, the feel of her clench and release on his cock, the sound of her airy moaning.

His large hands wrapped themselves around her hips, his thumbs rested at the jut, his fingers dug into her fleshy backside, and he started to pivot and angle her as he varied his depth and strokes.

It was as though her husband was looking for something.

He knew he had found his mark when she gasped deep and looked dazed. The tip of his cock was nudging that roughened patch of secrecy inside her.

He kept her in place and fucked with short hard thrusts, stroking it repeatedly.

Sweat was rolling down his back, stinging the lines she'd carved there, spurring him on. He could see beads of it glistening in the valley of her breasts as well, and wanted nothing more than to lick it away; but, no, his duty was to her first.

Placing the palm of his hand over her pelvic bone, he pressed down, increasing contact inside, causing Sansa to moan from somewhere deep in her chest.

Several minutes of careful ministrations saw his wife start to tense, he knew she was close; and when she opened her eyes in panic, her arms swung down and her nails dug into his knees, he knew how to sate her.

"Sansa." He slowed to a stop in order to talk to her.

She was embarrassed, he could see that plainly, but she looked him in the eye regardless.

_My brave girl._

His hands traveled up her body, massaging every part of her, calming her.

"Do you trust me?" He watched her breathing heavy, considering her answer, and he found himself once again feeling flawed because she had to consider her trust in him in the first place.

"_Yes_," she breathed.

Tywin started moving again, short hard thrusts, a steady rhythm aimed at her most elusive spot, "You'll not make water," he watched her blush intensify and couldn't help but smirk, "When you feel that way again, I want you to close your eyes and relax."

Her breathing was deepening again but she pulled her brows together in a silent protest.

"You'll _not_ Sansa," he said between breaths, grinning in his own way, "I assure you."

Sansa looked at her husband then; this was the version of him she adored. This was the version of him that made it easy to forget a name, forget who they both were. It was the man whose eyes smiled. It was the man who was capable of caring.

He continued moving in her and pressing his palm low on her abdomen.

Sweat was dripping into his eyes and off his nose by the time her body started to tense again.

When she felt the deep flutter start again she closed her eyes; he watched as her hands fisted into the bed linen, her head lolled to the side and he heard a continuous low mewl spilling from her parted lips.

All at once Sansa inhaled deeply, her inner walls clenched around him like a vice, she let out a moaning cry, and his cock and thighs were soaking in her wetness.

But it was the pleasure he could see rippling through her that was of greater value.

Tywin stretched out over top of his wife, gathered her in his arms - the pliable thing she was - and fucked her in long lazy pushes and pulls.

She was moaning sheer joy through every movement.

He knew in that moment she was someplace better, somewhere that suffering didn't exist, and he worked to give her respite for as long as possible.

When he felt her fingers find purchase on his back again, he allowed himself a faster pace, a deeper push; and as she breathed his name beside his ear, he murmured a name-prayer of his own and spent hot inside her.

It was long minutes they stayed like that, him overtop her like a shelter, before he heard her voice reemerging as something coherent.

"Wha-" She was still shuddering in waves, talking into his shoulder, holding onto him for fear of being washed away completely.

He induced her silence by rolling his hips, fucking her with his softening cock.

It was enough to make her forget her questions; brought him reprieve from telling her it was his first wife that taught him the intimacies of women. That after a year of marriage she presented him the filthiest, gods-send of a book he'd ever allowed his eyes to view, and _that _technique was something that took moons to conquer. That he'd willfully forgotten it after Joanna died because no one deserved that kind of happiness, least of all him. That he'd forgotten about the book altogether until a servant found it years later in the room his children played in.

It prevented him from confessing that just looking at her, in any setting, in any context, Sansa made him _want _that joy again, and that it scared him more than he would ever admit.

Instead, he held her tight, buried his face in her neck and hair, absorbed her humming contentment, and hoped, _hoped_, his actions would speak a fraction of what he felt.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He stayed with her as long as he could, but it was early afternoon yet and he would have to eventually leave in order to fulfill his duty as Hand.

She was awake but sated when he finally called for a bath and to be attended. He didn't have to look at her to know she wasn't smiling, her pain once again a blanket on her. But she wasn't weeping, or grieving; she was processing it - registering and calculating it. Tywin knew with every confidence that his wife would once again prevail, once again move forward.

But as he finished the tedium that made up the majority of his days he knew he had one more matter that needed to be resolved.

He made his way to the small set of rooms assigned to Catelyn Tully.

A large percentage of himself knew his wife was speaking the truth of what her mother said to her, but there was a tiny amount, the smallest of fractions, that couldn't really believe it.

He had known Lady Catelyn as a young woman at Riverrun; he'd never claim to know her more than decorum allotted, but he knew enough of the girl from speaking with her, that her house words were more than just a series of letters.

When he entered her rooms he immediately dismissed her maids, but spoke to one in passing, "Is she well?"

The young woman didn't meet his eye, "Yes m'lord. She eats, she drinks, she bathes. But not said a word, other t' Lady Sansa."

With another flick of his fingers the girl promptly left.

Lady Catelyn was sitting at a small table within the bedchamber, it was near the window, the view was of the water.

Her face was covered in bandages and judging by the amount of them, Tywin knew her wounds were significant. The room smelled of the poultice that must have been used under the dressings, and it somehow added to the unease he was feeling.

"Lady Catelyn."

She didn't bother to look at him, "So she sent the lion," she scoffed a bitter sound, "Whatever you've done to her, you've certainly made her weak." Catelyn flicked her eyes at him then, "But I suppose that's the way you like them."

Tywin raised his eyebrows at her entertaining show of bravado, scoffed his own bitter sound and attempted to speak, "Sansa is a stro-"

"My children are _dead_ Lannister, no thanks to you."

"_No_," his tone was that of a parent scolding a child, "your daughter _lives_, and wishes to have her _mother_."

"And which daughter is that? The one you lied about having, or the one you fucked into a traitor?"

His mind cringed; if this was the woman she found that morning, Tywin fully understood the pain Sansa had been dealt.

"Stop being a damn fool, _your daughter_ came to see you. Need I remind you of your duty as a mother?"

The face of Lady Catelyn softened to one that was familiar, one that he remembered from Riverrun and various tourneys, one that he would be happy to inform Sansa had reemerged.

"No my lord, you don't," even her voice was the one he recalled, "that is why I am asking you now to honour the wishes of _her mother_, and kill her. It would be a mercy."

His fury was simmering.

"I will _not_," he growled, "and you would do well to get over your _stupidity_ my lady."

Her features and tone did not change, but the look in her eyes was deadly, "Was it the prospect of bedding a _child_, or was it the prospect of bedding a _Stark _that prompted your own stupidity my lord?"

His fury consumed him then, he leaned down and brought his face a mere hands width away from hers.

"You will _not_ request to see Lady Sansa," he seethed, "She will not be denied access to you, but the choice will be _hers_."

His demeanour switched to something made of pure menace, "But if you disturb her, like your folly today, I will personally see to it you suffer to a degree that will make your time with the Freys seem favourable."

Lady Catelyn didn't so much as flinch, and when she spoke her voice was cold and distant.

"Threats, my lord, lose their edge when you have been through what I have." She wore a smile, and it would have been sweet if it weren't so empty, "Women are resilient, I've discovered, in both body and mind, to the depthless treachery of men."

Tywin leaned in closer then, ensuring his words were felt as much as they were heard, "I am _well_ aware."

She didn't know, or understand, the reference but Lady Stark knew the implication of his statement.

"Is that what you do to Sansa?" Her personality folded in on itself again, her smile was malicious.

"One more suggestion like _that_, and the unpleasantness starts _here and now_." It was all he could do to grit the words through his teeth, without reaching forward and choking the life out of the woman in front of him.

He watched as she considered him for a moment, then tilted her head slightly - as a dog would at an unknown sound.

"You _love _her." Her statement was delivered in a tone of absolute victory.

Tywin stepped back, as though she breathed knives instead of words.

He didn't speak, just held her icy gaze with one of his own; and all too soon he realized that the gap of silence had turned into an admission on his part, and that to speak and deny it would be a confirmation, and to give her the words she wanted to hear would be a weakness.

He didn't love Sansa, not like what he knew love to be, but-

Lady Stark started laughing, loud and unbidden, startling Tywin out of his contemplation.

Hers was a laugh the lion was familiar with; one that he could still hear echoing through the very halls he traversed daily. It was a laugh built primarily on paranoia and, as was the case with Lady Catelyn, anchored in grief and suffering.

It was madness.

Lord Tywin then took the only recourse remaining; he turned without word and left.

It wasn't long into the trek back to the tower that he decided Lady Catelyn would not stay in Kings Landing.

She would remain a captive, of course, but she would do so at Casterly Rock.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She didn't know the specifics of the emergency that shuffled her from the sitting room of their apartments, she only knew that it was staged for that particular purpose; for _her_ particular purpose.

She was pulled and lead through corridors and crevices within the walls of the tower. Ones she never knew existed, and was quite happy to be ignorant of given their extent and potential use. The idea was frightening.

But it was a soft calm voice that guided her through stagnant air and dark catacombs, and it was the same voice that eventually brought her to a hooded figure waiting by two horses in an unknown thicket. There was still plenty of light in the early evening but she couldn't obtain her bearings in relation to the castle, and _that_ was frightening too.

Lord Varys left her in the company of the hooded stranger, didn't make introductions, just turned and shuffled off to his next task.

The hooded figure spoke first, "My lady?"

The voice was vaguely familiar, and even when the man pulled back his hood to reveal a dirty ruddy face covered in a shaggy beard, she felt she knew him but couldn't place him. It was uncanny.

"Harwin, my lady," the man said quietly, "do you remember me?" He smiled small and pained, "My father, Hullen, was the Master of Horse in Winterfell."

She was quickly inundated in a tide of memories and remembrance, of a kind man, of kind men, all who followed her father to Kings Landing, all who died because of her.

Blood through her fingers.

Sansa smiled at him, equally small and equally pained, "I remember." She had to gather herself, but she had to know, "Where have you been? Have you come from the North?"

"No my lady, your father sent me with Beric Dondarrion to apprehend Lannister raiders..." He looked at her, embarrassed, his line of thought looked to have snapped. Harwin cleared his throat and continued, "After your father... we... We stayed as a company... out there..." He nodded in some unknown direction through the thicket.

She knew exactly who they were, "Brotherhood Without Banners," she breathed.

Harwin nodded, but Sansa didn't need his confirmation. She had been reading missives and enduring various commanders and lords cursing this same brotherhood for well over a year.

After the death of her father, the hunters had become the hunted and instead of disbanding, surrendering, or running, The Brotherhood Without Banners chose to stay, be labeled outlaws and fight a semblance of the fight her father had charged them with.

"How did you..." Sansa was going to say, _get here_, but the question, like the thicket, would have been an enigma, "Were you in Kings Landing?" She settled on.

The man in front of her swallowed hard before speaking, "We saw Lannister men taking a prisoner from The Twins, I was told to follow and observe." He furrowed his brow and continued, "It was Lord Varys that found me," Harwin stood up straighter, "told me that Lady Stark wished to meet me - had a task for me."

She smiled genuinely at his pride, "It is said Lord Varys knows your business before you do."

He smiled back, "I can believe that Lady Lannis..." Harwin drifted his address of her, not feeling comfortable branding her with the name of a known enemy.

"Sansa," she offered, her smile reducing.

She knew she was just as much a traitor now to those of the North as she was, before she was married, to those of the South. It seemed a label she would always wear, but, as her meeting with the man from The Brotherhood Without Banners suggested, one she would never conform to.

"Lady Sansa," he said it with a smile and a familiar tone, the one his father had, it reminded her of home. Of her childhood. It was comforting.

She smiled back at him, genuine again, before she became serious, "The task I am asking you to shoulder is the care and responsibility of my mother." She continued before he could ask the questions she knew he had on his lips, "_That_ was who you followed from The Twins. _That _is who I am asking you to... rescue." It seemed the right word, from unrealistic songs or not, for what she was asking of him.

He looked surprised but didn't speak as she expected him to. Instead he looked back at the two horses, two of Lannisters finest, that were tacked, hobbled and grazing nearby.

"You will be provided for," she said confidently, "In the saddlebags of the black horse, you will find enough gold to get you back to the Riverlands... or... wherever you decide to go... quite safely and then some."

He looked back to her now, his voice and look not as pleasant as before, "The gold will provide for the people your husband set his dogs on."

She concealed her grimace, she knew Tywin let loose Gregor Clegane to burn and pillage; and even though Robb was dead he had yet to bring The Mountain to heel. He was still out there.

"Outside the wellbeing of my mother, I trust you to spend it as you see fit", she kept her tone neutral, "She has her own agenda, one that is in line with yours, one that I will support to the best of my ability."

Harwin laughed at that, "The wife of Tywin Lannister is going finance the same men her husband wants dead?"

She was serious, "The _very same_."

He narrowed his eyes then, "What kind of trick is this?"

"There is no _trick_," she was exasperated, "The gold is there, see for yourself." She watched as he did just that.

"There will be more if you require it. Varys has given you means to contact him, and that is what you will do. Any attempt to reach me directly will, as you can imagine, have dire consequences."

His smile was back, but this one was made more of misbehaviour, "Dire for us both I'd assume."

She answered without missing her cue, "I don't recommend trying to live on assumptions, ser."

Harwin lost his mocking smile; the girl had control somewhere and he would be a fool to try and determine whether it was actual or perceived.

He nodded in the end.

"Harwin, I feel I have to advise you... My mother isn't..." She had practiced this part in her head many times, but the reality of it was something she could never truly prepare for, "Lady Stark is not the same woman you remember."

"Your fathers death, and the war, as such, has changed us all my lady." He was sincere.

She tried to smile, but it looked forced, "She has been through a tremendous amount of torment and it has... affected her."

"Then would it not be better if she stayed here to be cared for, my lady?"

She shook her head solemnly.

"She would not thrive here, or anywhere she felt a captive." Sansa closed herself off from thinking of her mothers torture. "She is driven, now, by her need for vengeance, and I want to ensure she has it within her grasp."

Harwin looked at her warily, not quite knowing if, or how, to interpret Lady Sansas intent for her mother. "My lady, I do not live in a place of comfort, there are no amenities. It is no place for a lady, highborn or otherwise."

Sansa regarded him thoughtfully, "You followed her for a reason Harwin, whether it was a duty to my father or to Winterfell, it matters not. What matters is that you, and those you companion with, are who she needs right now."

He looked as though he remembered something important, "Your sist-"

All was left forgotten the moment they heard footfalls and became silent.

Harwin, without prompt or hesitation, drew his sword and placed himself in front of Sansa; using his hand, in the event he would have to swing to defend her, he gently pushed and placed her at a safe distance behind him.

She stood frightened, but couldn't help but smile internally at the honourable Northman. Her father would be proud.

Lord Varys emerged with her mother in tow, she was heavily shrouded under a dull cloak.

Harwin sheathed his blade and bowed to the hooded figure, "Lady Stark, my name is Harwin, son of Hullen, Master of Horse at Winterfell."

He watched as the figure pushed back her hood and was concerned regarding the bandages she wore on her face and neck.

Other than the auburn hair, white streaks and all, and the blue of her eyes that were distinctly Tully, Harwin would not have known this was the same graceful woman who held the hearts of every soul in Winterfell.

_...a tremendous amount of torment..._

At that thought, any apprehension he had regarding the want to be responsible for his liege lady turned to dust.

"I am at your service my lady."

The woman didn't smile, didn't nod or acknowledge him verbally, she simply walked and took her place beside and in front of him.

It was then she turned to Sansa.

"And just what _exactly_ do you want Lady Lannister?" She was cold in her demeanour.

"The same thing _you_ want Lady Stark." She returned an outward posture she was sure was plucked directly from a memory of her husband.

Sansa felt her heart break a little more though. This wasn't the way it should have been between a daughter and a mother, but her sadness was forming its own version of resolve and it only served to confirm and fortify her current position toward the woman wearing her mother's skin.

"You told me you wanted them to pay, my lady, is that still your desire?" _Gods, _she even _sounded _like Tywin.

The woman in front of her almost growled, "_Yes_."

"My marriage doesn't change the fact that I am the daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully," the woman winced slightly at that, "Just as it doesn't change the fact that I am of the North."

Her eyes softened slightly and Sansa knew she was speaking to more of her mother. She leaned in a little and chanced holding her hand, her fingers really, before she continued.

"The North remembers, mother." She squeezed the fingers she was holding as she spoke in a soft urgency, "_The North remembers_."

The woman looked at her for a moment, as though in careful thought, and squeezed her fingers back only once before letting go completely and resuming her look of distance and hate.

Sansa was about to give up, her hope of granting her mother her revenge was drifting away as the woman barely acknowledged her words. She would have to carry on with her contingency plan and provide for Harwin and his men, and rest knowing her mother was at least no longer a captive.

Until the woman nodded at her; she must have read the confusion in Sansa's eyes because the woman nodded again at her before turning to Harwin and speaking.

"I want their _blood_. I want their _lives_. _All of them_." Her tone carried a lethal ferocity. She looked back to Sansa, "Lannisters will die in turn, be warned."

Sansa wore a carefully arranged mask of indifference and simply nodded. It would be something to deal with when the time came, not now.

The woman turned her back without another word and walked past Harwin toward their waiting mounts.

"My lady." Harwin bowed to Sansa and held a look in his eye that she knew meant her mother would be cared for.

Sansa smiled small and sad at the man, but nodded her every assurance.

She watched as he helped her mother onto her horse and mounted his own; and, not that she was expecting it, neither spared a glance to her as they began to ride.

The soft shuffle of feet and even softer voice behind her reminded Sansa that she wasn't alone.

"I'm truly sorry for what has happened your family my lady - to your mother." Varys always sounded sincere, but Sansa was never sure if it was just part of his act.

Sansa watched the figures shrink into the distance, "My mother died at The Twins my lord," she kept looking at the tiny silhouettes, her voice quiet but hardened, "butchered with my brother and his northern allies."

She turned finally, once the figures were gone completely, and addressed Lord Varys with thoughtful sadness, "No my lord, _that _woman is nothing of Catelyn Stark, nothing of the mother I loved, with a warm and good heart," she clenched her jaw and started to walk past him, "No. _That _woman is made of stone."

She took his silence as understanding and kept walking, following the path he had shown her, the one that would place her back where she needed to be to conclude her ruse.

It was the truth, all of it, the woman set free was _not _Catelyn Stark, but a creature broken to the core and bent on revenge.

So, when her husband found her in the small room off the other sleeping chambers in their apartments, a room she designated as her bower and used when Tywin needed privacy; when he asked her pointedly, angrily, if she was in any way responsible for the release of her mother, she truthfully answered _no_.

She watched as he huffed and raged and scrutinized her until he was satisfied she wasn't being devious.

Whether he suspected something outside what she told him, he would never say, or even let on; but she knew her husband better than anyone. She knew he was well aware of what she'd done, but he was also well aware of her debt; and it was the latter that was a far greater concern for Lord Lannister.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

As to be expected, in the fortnight that had come and gone since the escape of Catelyn Tully, there had been no mention of it between Lord and Lady Lannister.

There had, in fact, been airs and sightings of the fugitive here and there but nothing that prompted the concern or pursuit by Crown, or Lannister forces.

Neither was there a break in the siege at Riverrun, and Sansa concluded that that would be where her mother would aim her rage. Freys and Lannisters both, sitting in wait for what she could only imagine was bloodshed at its finest.

She cringed at the thought.

Before she could think any more on the matter, long fingers turned and pushed a letter across the desktop, in her direction.

A part of her didn't want to pick it up, let alone read it; the part that found every death and scheme and theory and complaint that were laid out in words, leached her strength.

She looked at her husband; Kevan told her he'd been this way since they had been children. Sansa remembered playing and gossiping and enjoying her friends from that time in her life, and she couldn't help but feel sorry for him in a way.

He never looked tired though, not like how she felt, drained and exhausted.

To him every letter was a puzzle, or a piece to a greater riddle. And it was the challenge of choice and ascertaining answers that gave him a particular joy.

Sansa found she shared that same joy, just not with the same intensity, and sometimes not even toward the same element of the riddle.

Her husband told her she had an abstract perspective, Tyrion told her she was sly.

Either way, it was _that _part of her which picked up the letter and focused her eyes to read.

After several minutes, she lowered the missive and looked at her husband with concern, "The Boltons hold the North."

"Let them." His tone was cool and distracted, as though the news meant nothing.

"But-"

"What are your house words?" He looked at her then and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Hear Me Roar."

The stare Tywin gave her made her feel as though she was a small child failing the simplest of tasks.

_Little Sansa Stark, always trying to please._

She _did _feel stupid. She looked down then, smiled and scoffed at herself before raising her eyes at him again; Tywin himself was wearing a tiny smirk.

"_Winter Is Coming_."

He kept the smirk as he nodded his head and reiterated, "_Let them_."

Her brows bunched in mild confusion and she spoke her thoughts as they were emerging, "Do you mean to attack in wint- No..."

The pictures lined up fast and she _knew _she had the answer.

"Let winter _destroy_ them." Her smile was gone, "We will take Winterfell at the onset of spring."

Sansa didn't realize, but she was speaking in a lowered tone, one built on the notion of violence; and watched as her husband, the Great Lion of Casterly Rock, carved his smirk into a grin.

* * *

**Authors Notes:**

The support I have encountered, both in public and private comments and feedback, follows and kudos, in regards to this series has been absolutely phenomenal. I've tried to put into words how much it all means, but I have honestly been left blank.

So, allow me a humble thank you.

There have been quite a few inquiries about the series, but it's the main one I will address here.

_Will the Pride and Pack series continue?_

Yes.

I have blocked the series out to an ending. Truthfully, it was the ending that was written first, so not to see it through would be a disservice to the story itself.

Shy of something catastrophic happening to me, ya know, death or an accidental lobotomy via lawn ornament, there will be approximately another three parts to the series (although I will not guarantee they will be the length of this one.)

_When_ it will continue, that's the greater question.

I need to step away from it for awhile, (read: it could be days or months), to rejuvenate and pursue other projects that have been idle too long.

Again, thank you.

Relic


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